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Illustrated Magazine 

For Young Folks 



Part II., May, 1887, to October, 18 



Copyright, 1887, by The Century Co. 

The De Vinne Press. 

Library, Univ. of 
North Carolina 




Six Months — May, 1887, to October, 1887. 

Digitized by the Internet Archive 

in 2012 with funding from 

University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill 



About HUMMING-BIRDS. (Illustrated by J. M. Nugent) Mrs. Homer II. Stuart 868 

Amateur Camera, The. (Illustrated) Alexander Black 6S3 

Animal Invaders. (Illustrated by J. C. Beard) Charles Frederick Holder . . . 596 

April to May. Poem. (Illustrated by George Foster Barnes) Jane Ellis Joy 495 

August. Poem Frank Demfsler Sherman ... 728 

Banker and Broker, A George J. Manson 627 

Battle of Gettysburg, The. ( Illustrated) General Adam Badeau 855 

Bead and Wire Inlaying. (Illustrated by the Author) C/iarles G. Leland 706 

Bed-time Song, A. Poem Lilian Dynevor Rice 515 

Betty's Sunday. ( Illustrated by R. B. Birch) A. J. II 672 

Big Monopoly, A. Jingle. (Illustrated and engrossed by R. B. Birch) T. Jackson 658 

Birds and Boys. Poem Mary Bradley 511 

Boyhood of John Greenleaf YVhittiek, The. (Illustrated) William II. Rideing 933 

Boyhood of Oliver Wendell Holmes, The. (Illustrated) . . William H. Rideing 724 

Boyhood of William Dean Howells, The. (Illustrated) William H. Rideing 817 

Boy's Idea of Travel, A. Verses. (Illustrated) Henry Tyrrell 820 

Brant, The. ( Illustrated by the Author) Fanny E. Gifford 769 

Bringing Brother John Home to His Dinner. Picture, drawn by A. Brennan 916 

Brownies and the Bees, The. Verses. (Illustrated by the Author) Palmer Cox 624 

Brownies at Archery', The. Verses. (Illustrated by the Author) Palmer Cox 865 

Brownies Canoeing, The. Verses. (Illustrated by the Author) Palmer Cox 549 

Brownies Fishing, The. Verses. (Illustrated by the Author) Palmer Cox 789 

Brownies' Fourth of July - , The. Verses. (Illustrated by the Author) . . . Palmer Cox 700 

Calling Them Up. Poem George Cooper 599 

Catarina of Venice. (Illustrated by Robert Blum and others) E. S. Brooks 483 

Chancellorsville. (" A Great Battle in a Forest ") General Adam Badeau 770 

Cheyne Hospital, The Mrs. Katharine S. MacQuoid 635 

Child-Princess Charlotte, The. (Illustrated by D. Clinton Peters) Ellen M. Hutchinson 600 

Children Have Gone to Lunch, The. Picture, drawn by Alfred Brennan 782 

Child-Sketches from George Eliot- > Julm Magruder 530 

Middlemarch S 

Christina of Sweden. (Illustrated by Robert Blum) E. S. Brooks S46 

Christ's Hospital; or, "The Blue-Coat School." (Illustrated by { Elhabt . th RMns Pmne i L ... 8j 6 

Joseph Pennell and others) S 

Cupid and the Mutineers Mary J. Safford 931 

Dandie. Poem Mary Bradley 547 

Dante and the Young Florentine. Poem. (Illustrated) E. 813 

Deadly Feud, A. Verses. (Illustrated by R. B. Birch) Isabel Frances Bel/oios 709 

Decorative Tablet. Picture, drawn by C. R. Loomis 583 

Dog that Held a Grudge, A E. P. Roe 547 

Dog Stories, St. Nicholas 543 

Dolls' Hospitals. (Illustrated by W. H. Drake and others) Hope Hcnvard 523 

Elizabeth's Concert. (Illustrated) Rolnna S. Smith 578 

Fair Weather. Verses. (Illustrated by the Author) Martlui Day Fenner 500 

Fairy Gold. Poem Helen Gray Cone S54 

Fancy'-dress Ball, The. Verses. (Illustrated) Joel Stacy 494 

Fiddle-John's Family. (Illustrated by George Wharton Edwards) Hjalmar Hjorth Boycsen . . . 643 

756, S27, 922 

Figurehead of the James Starbuck, The. (Illustrated by the Author) . .George Wharton Edwards . . . 742 

First Paper Canoe, The. (Illustrated bydiagrams) II. E 874 



FOUR-IN-HAND THROUGH Orchard Street. Picture, drawn by Alfred Brennan 728 

Fourth of July Record. A. Verses Lilian Dynevor Rice 683 

Friend in Need, A. (Illustrated) B. S. E 545 

General Grant at Vicksburg. (Illustrated) General Adam Badeau 939 

Genuine Mother Goose, A. Jingle. (Illustrated and engrossed by A. Brennan) 516 

Gettysburg, The Battle of. ( Illustrated) General Adam Badeau 855 

Grace and Betsey. Poem. ( Illustrated from a photograph) Clara Kirehoffer 950 

Great Battle in a Forest, A. (Illustrated by W. L. Sheppard) General Adam Badeau 770 

Gunpowder Plot, A. (Illustrated by E. W. Kemble) Jessie C. Glasier 664 

Highwayman, The. Verses. (Illustrated by R. B. Birch) Allen G. Bigelow 740 

Historic Girls. (Illustrated by Robert Blum and others) E. S. Brooks 483, 846 

Catr.rina of Venice 4S3 

Christina of Sweden 846 

Holmes, The Boyhood of Oliver Wendell. (Illustrated) William H. Rideing 724 

Howells, The Boyhood of William Dean. (Illustrated) William H. Rideing 817 

How Poor Puss was Rescued. (Illustrated by F. Bellew, Jr.) Florence H. Smith 703 

How Some Animals Become Extinct. (Illustrated by J. M. Nugent) . . Charles Frederick Holder- . . . 760 

Huge Hippocamp, The. Jingle. (Illustrated and engrossed by R. B. Birch). .Isabel Frances Bellows 511 

Idaho Picnic, An. (Illustrated by the Author) Mary Hallock Foote 729 

In Blackberry Season. Picture, drawn by C. F. Siedl 749 

Indian Trail, The. Poem Rossiter Johnson 901 

In English Country. (Illustrated by Alfred Parsons and Harry Fenn) Frank R. Stockton 648 

Informed. Jingle. (Illustrated by Mary A. Lathbury) M. M. D 759 

Interesting Experiment, An. (Illustrated) S. E. Boggs 556 

Invitation to Echo. Poem. (Illustrated by the Frontispiece) Edith M. Thomas 723 

Ivy Spray, An. (Illustrated by Albert E. Sterner) Louisa M. Alcolt 883 

Janie's Rainbow. Verses Susan P. Siooope 623 

Japanese Baby and his Pets, A. Picture, drawn by J. C. Beard 798 

Japanese Dolls, The. Verses. (Illustrated by Albertine Randall) Clara G. Dolliver 704 

Jenny's Boarding-house. (Illustrated by W. A. Rogers) James Otis 496 

612, 692, 783 

Jingles 500, 511, 516, 577, 611, 658, 662, 671, 691, 717, 759, 854, 870, S71, 938 

Journalist, A George J. Manson 747 

Juan and JUANITA. (Illustrated by Henry Sandham) Frances Courtenay Baylor . . 489 

584, 677, 763, S21, 896 

Jubilee Cake. (Illustrated by J. M. Nugent) Alice Wellington Rollins . . . . S93 

July. Poem. ( Illustrative initial) Frank Dempster Sherman .... 647 

June. Poem. (Illustrative initial) '. Frank Dempster Sherman . . . . 563 

KatY-DID — Katy-DID n't. Poem Mary E. Wilkins 663 

Kind Snail, The. Jingle. (Illustrated and engrossed by R. B. Birch) Isabel Frances Bellows 691 

King-bean Game, The. (Illustrated by the Author) Frank Belle-w 708 

King London. (Illustrated) Frank R. Stockton 564 

Last Swath, The. Picture, drawn by Alfred Brennan 835 

Learning to Read. Verses. (Illustrated) O. Herford. . . , 870 

Lindie's Portrait. (Illustrated by Frank Day) Rose Hawthorne Lathrop. . . . 512 

Low Countries and the Rhine, The. (Illustrated from photographs). . . .Frank R. Stockton 902 

Marigold. (Illustrated by Jessie McDermott) Nora Perry 777 

May. Poem Frank Dempster Sherman ... 488 

Mer-lads at Play. Picture, drawn by C. Varian 746 

MlDDLEMARCH. (Illustrative head-piece by Harry Fenn) Julia Magruder 530 

Miss Lilywhite's Party. Verses George Cooper 677 

Mr. Dream-maker. Poem Samuel Minium Peck 741 

" My Bark is on the Sea." Picture 548 

My Dog. Poem Bessie Hill 938 

My Lady Fair. Verses. (Illustrated by the Author) Martha Day Fenner 671 

Nantucket Sinks. (Illustrated by the Author) D. Coffin 794 

Northerly. Jingle. (Illustrated by Mary Hallock Foote) 31. M. D 938 


October. Poem Frank Dempster Sherman . . 947 

Old Sea Beach, An S. L. Frey 814 

OLE Mammy Prissy. (Illustrated by E. W. Kemble) Jessie C. Glasier 916 

Only Daughter, An. (Illustrated by Jessie McDermott) Nora Perry 501 

Personally Conducted. (Illustrated) Frank R. Stockton 564 

64S, 846 

King London 564 

In English Country 648 

Low Countries and the Rhine, The 902 

Photography : The Amateur Camera. (Illustrated) Alexander Black 683 

Pictures 515, 548, 555, 583, 728, 746, 749, 782, 79S. S16, S35, S75, 916, 958 

Plowman of the Volga Plains, The. Poem Henry Tyrrell 663 

Poor Marionette. Poem. (Illustrated by George Wharton Edwards) M. M. D 892 

Positive Engagement, A. Verses Mary L. B. Branch 496 

Private View, A. Picture, drawn by Culmer Barnes 555 

Pupil of Cimabue, The. Poem E. Cavazza 603 

Rainy May Day in Central Park, A. (Illustrated by Jessie Curtis ) ^ mlHngton RoUins . . . . 5,7 

Shepherd) > 

Ready for Business George J. Manson 627 

747. 851, 947 

A Banker and Broker 627 

A Journalist 747 

A Sea-Captain 851 

A Retail Dry-Goods Merchant 947 

Ready to Spring. Picture 515 

Real Mother Goose Rhyme, A. Jingle. (Illustrated and engrossed by A. Brennan) 871 

Reason Why, The. Poem. (Illustrated by A. Brennan) George Cooper 58S 

Report Concerning the " King's Move Puzzle" 558, 638, 718 

Retail Dry-Goods Merchant, A George J. Manson 947 

Riddle, A. Verses. (Illustrated by Lizbeth B. Comins) Lucy Comins 854 

Roses Red. Song. (Illustrated by Laura C. Hills) Elizabeth L. Gould 630 

Sea-beach of To-day, A. Picture, drawn by C. L. Vogt 816 

Sea-Captain, A. (Illustrated) George J. Manson S51 

September. Poem Frank Dempster Sherman ... 827 

Sheridan in the Valley. ( Illustrated by Theodore R. Davis) General Adam Badcan 604 

Sherman's March to the Sea. (Illustrated by Theodore R. Davis and others). General Adam Badeau 533 

Shortening the Baby. Verses J. R. Easrxuood 576 

Some Polite Dogs Celia Thaxter 543 

Song of the Bee, The. Poem. (Illustrated) Nancy A T elson Pendleton .... 845 

Song of the Mosquito, The. Verses Grace Denio Litchfield 604 

Spring Song. Decorative Tablet, drawn by C. R. Loomis 5S3 

St. Nicholas Dog Stories. (Illustrated) 543, 930 

Some Polite Dogs , Celia Thaxter 543 

A Friend in Need B. S. E 545 

Twinkle Louis Sajat 546 

Dandie. Poem Mary Bradley 547 

A Dog that Held a Grudge E. P. Roe 547 

Story of a Lost Dog, The. (Illustrated) Edith Evelyn Bigelow 620 

Strange Doings of the Kiwi, The. (Illustrated by J. M. Nugent) John R. Coryell 929 

Summer Lullaby, A. Poem Eudora S. Bumstead 75^ 

Sunflower Chorus, The Ed-win Stanley Thompson . . 950 

"The Black and White Jumpers." Jingle. (Illustrated and engrossed? F F ,. - 

by G. R. Halm) \ 

"There was a Small Boy of Woonsocket." linrie. (Illustrated and ) ,, . ,. , . -. _._ 

J & ^ ', Margaret I andcgrijt 717 

engrossed by R. B. Birch) \ 

"There was once an Absurd Alligator." Jingle. (Illustrated and ) T , , r n „ „ .,, 

J & ' ( , Isabel Frances be/lows 577 

engrossed by R. B. Birch) ^ 


Nora Perry 803 


"There were Three Boys of Gi.endale." Jingle. (Illustrated by) c , n , ,, r,.,„„ cc-, 

J & x - j, rrauk Kusscll Green 002 

the Author) $ 

The Thistle Wins The Race. Picture, drawn by Alfred Brennan 875 

Tib Tyler's Beautiful Mother. (Illustrated by Mary Hallock Foote j 

and Albert E. Sterner) \ 

Twinkle Louis Sajal 546 

Unexpected Engagement, An. Picture, drawn by Walter Bobbett 958 

Vicksburg, General Grant at. ( Illustrated) General Adam Badean 939 

Wanted, A Map. Verses Ma?y E. Wilkins 501 

War Stories for Boys and Girls. (Illustrated by Theodore R. Davis, ) 

W. L. Sheppard, E. W. Kemble, and others) \ Ga,eral AJal " Badca " 533 

604, 77c, 855, 939 

Sherman's March to the Sea 533 

Sheridan in the Valley 604 

A Great Battle in a Forest 770 

The Battle of Gettysburg 855 

General Grant at Vicksburg 939 

Way to Fairyland, The. Poem A T ora Perry 915 

What Mother Says. Verses. (Illustrated by the Author) Lhbeth B. Comins 810 

Whistler, The. (Illustrated by the Author) Fanny E. Gifford 812 

Whittier, The Boyhood of John Grf.enleaf. (Illustrated) William H. Kideing 933 

Winning a Commission. (Illustrated by H. A. Ogden) . . George /. Putnam 517 

589, 659, 750 

Work and Play. Poem. (Illustrated by Margaret Vandegrift) 949 

For Very' Little Folk. (Illustrated,) 

Rather Crowded Mabellc Charllon Phillips ... 63 1 

A Making-up Anna M. Pratt 710 

Silly Miss Unicorn N. P. Babcock 711 

How Buzz Took a Ride Juniata Stafford 952 

Plays ani Music. 

Roses Red. (Illustrated by Laura C. Hills) $ Words b >" ^limbetk L. Gould ) - 

I Music by Harriet C. MeKovm $ J 

Jack-in-the-Pulpit. (Illustrated.) 

Introduction — A Queer Bill — True Philosophy — Tit-for-Tat — The First Watch — A Wonderful Monogram 
(illustrated), 552; Introduction — A Clever Dog — Those Natural History Questions — Another Tiger Pet — 
Snowing in a Ball-room — Another Animal Barometer — More Queer Names for Things — About Some Eng- 
lish Squirrels — Toe Counters — Where is that Party, Now? (illustrated) — A Snake Story, 632; Introduc- 
tion — Hurrah for the Red, White, and Blue — Fables — An Old Weather Sign — A Vacation Movement 
(illustrated) — How do Quails Hide? — But Before That — Is it a Misfit? (illustrated) — A Query, 712; 
Introduction — Natural Ice Cream — A Clever Oriole — A Humble Worker — Do Mosquitoes Kill Trout ? — 
What Is It? — Some Long-lived Fish — A Snail's Pace — An Indignation Meeting (illustrated), 792; Intro- 
duction — Life in the Polar Regions — Warm Weather — Have Snakes Power to Charm?. — A Touch of 
Nature — Lightning Holes (illustrated), S72 ; Introduction — A Ballad of the Rain — Picadillies — Who is 
the Mischief-maker? — A Rhyme about Swimming — A Little Girl's Opinion of Him — A Peppery Paper- 
Eater — Change is not Destruction — Four-eyed and No-eyed Fish (illustrated), 954. 

The Letter-box. (Illustrated) 554, 636, 714, 795, 876, 956 

The Riddle-box. (Illustrated) 559, 639, 719, 799, 879, 959 

Editorial Notes 634, 714 


" Catarina of Venice, the Daughter of the Republic," by Robert Blum, facing Title-page of Volume — " A Day 
Dream," by Frank Russell Green, facing page 563 — "Fiddle-John and the Children," by George Wharton 
Edwards, facing page 643 — " Ech - O ! " by Mary Hallock Foote, facing page 723 — " Tib Tyler Helps her 
Little Friend," by Mary Hallock Foote, facing page 803 — "The Artist Came Often to the Sittings in that 
Quiet Room," drawn by Albert E. Sterner, facing page 8S3. 


(SEE PAGE 487.) 


Vol. XIV. 

MAY, 1887. 

No. 7. 

[Copyright, 1S87, by The CENTURY CO.] 

By E. S. Brooks. 

( 'Afterward known as Catarina Cornaro, Queen 0/ Cyprus and "Daughter of the Republic.") 

A. D. 1466. 


"Who is he? 

Why, do you not 
know, Catarina »zz'a. ? 
'T is his Most Puis- 
sant Excellency, the 
Mighty Lord of Lu- 
signan, the runaway 
Heir of Jerusalem, 
the beggar Prince of 
Cyprus, with more 
titles to his name — 
ho, ho, ho ! — than 
he hath jackets to 
his back ; and with 
more dodging than 
ducats, so 't is said, 
when the time to pay 
for his lodging draw- 
eth nigh. Holo, 
Messer Principino ! 
Give you good-day, 
Lord of Lusignan! Ho, 

below there ! here is 

tribute for you ! " 

And down upon the head of a certain sad-faced, 
seedy-looking young fellow in the piazza, or square, 
beneath, descended a rattling shower of bonbons, 
thrown by the hand of the speaker, a brown-faced 
Venetian lad of sixteen. 

But little Catarina Cornaro, just freed from the 
imprisonment of her convent-school at Padua, felt 
her heart go out in pity toward this homeless 
young prince, who just now seemed to be the butt 
for all the riot and teasing of the boys of the Great 

" Nay, nay, my Giorgio, "she said to her brother; 
" 't is neither fair nor wise so to beset one in dire 
distress. The good sisters of our school have often 
told us that 't is better to be a beggar than a dull- 
ard ; and sure yon prince, as you do say he is, 
looketh to be no dolt. But ah, see there ! " she 
cried, leaning far over the gayly draped balcony; 
"see, he can well use his fists, can he not ! Nay, 
though, 't is a shame so to beset him, say I. 
Why should our lads so misuse a stranger, and a 
prince ?" 

It was the Feast Day of St. Mark, one of the 
jolliest of the old-time holidays of Venice, that 
wonderful city of the sea, whose patron and guard- 
ian St. Mark, the apostle, was supposed to be. 
Gondolas, rich with draperies of every hue that 
completely concealed their frames of somber black, 
shot in and out, and up and down all the water- 
streets of the beautiful city ; while towering pal- 
ace and humbler dwelling alike were gay with 
gorgeous hangings and fluttering streamers. 




In noticeable contrast with all the brilliant cos- 
tumes and laughing faces around him was the lad 
who just now seemed in so dire a strait. He had 
paused to \.itch one of the passing pageants from 
the steps of the Palazzo Cornaro, quite near the spot 
where, a century later, the famous bridge known 
as the Rialto spanned the Street of the Nobles, or 
Grand Canal, — always one of the most notable 
spots in the history of Venice the Wonderful. 

The lad was indeed a prince, the representative 
of a lordly house that for more than five hundred 
years had been strong and powerful, first as barons 
of France, and later as rulers of the Crusaders' 
Kingdom of Jerusalem and the barbaric but 
wealthy island of Cyprus. But poor Giacomo, or 
James, of Lusignan, royal prince though he was, 
had been banished from his father's court in Cy- 
prus. He had dared rebel against the authority 
of his stepmother, a cruel Greek princess from 
Constantinople, who ruled her feeble old husband 
and persecuted her spirited young stepson, the 
Prince Giacomo. 

And so, with neither money nor friends to help 
him on, he had wandered to Venice. But Venice 
in 1466, a rich, proud, and prosperous city, was a 
very poor place for a lad who had neither friends 
nor money; for. of course, the royal prince of a 
little island in the Mediterranean could not so 
demean himself as to soil his hands with work ! 

So I imagine that young Prince Giacomo had 
anything but a pleasant time in Venice. On this 
particular Feast Day of St. Mark, I am certain that 
he was having the most unpleasant of all his bitter 
experiences, as, backed up against one of the 
columns of the Cornaro Palace, he found himself 
surrounded by a crowd of thoughtless young 
Venetians, who were teasing and bullying him to 
the full content of their brutal young hearts. 

The Italian temper is known to be both hot and 
hasty ; but the temper of oriental Cyprus is even 
more fiery, and so it was not surprising that, in 
this most one-sided fray, the fun soon became 
lighting in earnest ; for anger begets anger. 

All about the young Prince was a tossing throng 
of restless and angry boys, while the beleaguered 
lad, still at bay, answered taunt with taunt. 

At this instant the door of the Cornaro Palace 
opened quickly, and the Prince Giacomo felt him- 
self drawn bodily within ; while a bright-faced 
young girl with flashing eye and defiant air con- 
fronted his greatly surprised tormentors. 

" Shame, shame upon you, boys of Venice," 
she cried, " thus to ill-use a stranger in your 
town ! Is a score of such as you against one poor 
lad the boasted chivalry of Venice ? Eh via ! the 
very fisher-lads of Mendicoli could teach you 
better ways ! " 

Taken quite aback by this sudden apparition 
and these stinging words, the boys dispersed with 
scarce an attempt to reply, and all the more 
hastily because they spied, coming up the Grand 
Canal, the gorgeous gondola of the Companions 
of the Stocking, an association of young men 
under whose charge and supervision all the pag- 
eants and displays of old Venice were given. 

So the piazza was speedily cleared ; and the 
Prince Giacomo, with many words of thanks to 
his young and unknown deliverer, hurried from 
the spot which had so nearly proved disastrous to 

Changes came suddenly in those unsettled times. 
Within two years both the Greek stepmother and 
the feeble old king were dead ; and Prince Giacomo, 
after a struggle for supremacy with his half-sister 
Carlotta, became King of Cyprus. 

Now Cyprus, though scarcely as large as the 
State of Connecticut, was a very desirable posses- 
sion, and one that Venice greatly coveted. Some 
of her citizens owned land there, and among these 
was Marco Cornaro, father of Catarina. And so 
it happened that, soon after the accession of King 
Giacomo, Messer Andrea Cornaro, the uncle of 
Catarina, came to Cyprus to inspect and improve 
the lands belonging to his brother Marco. 

Venice, in those days, was so great a power 
that the Venetian merchants were highly esteemed 
in all the Courts of Europe. And Uncle Andrea, 
who had probably loaned the new King of Cyprus 
a goodly store of Venetian ducats, became quite 
friendly with the young monarch and gave him 
much sage advice. 

One day — it seemed as if purely by accident, but 
those old Venetians were both shrewd and far- 
seeing — Uncle Andrea, talking of the glories of 
Venice, showed to King Giacomo a picture of his 
niece, Catarina Cornaro, then a beautiful girl of 

King Giacomo came of a house that was quick 
to form friendships and antipathies, loves and 
hates. He became infatuated with the picture, — 
so the story goes, — and expressed to Andrea 
Cornaro his desire to see and know the original. 

'• That face seemeth strangely familiar, Messer 
Cornaro," he said. 

He held the portrait in his hands and seemed 
struggling with an uncertain memory. Suddenly 
his face lighted up and he exclaimed joyfully : 

''So; I have it ! Messer Cornaro, I. know your 

"You know her, sire ?" echoed the surprised 
Uncle Andrea. 

" Ay, that indeed do I," said the King. " This 
is the same fair and brave young maiden who 
delivered me from a rascal rout of bovs on the 

l88 7 .J 



Grand Canal at Venice, on St. Mark's Day, scarce 
two years ago." And King Giacomo smiled and 
bowed at the picture as if it were the living Cata- 
rina instead of her simple portrait. 

Here now was news for Uncle Andrea. Like a 
Venetian and a Cornaro, he turned it to the best 
advantage. His niece Catarina, he assured the 
King, was as good as she was beautiful, and as 
clever as she was both. 

" But then," he declared, " Venice hath many 
fair daughters, sire, whom the King's choice would 
honor, and Catarina is but a young maid yet. 
Would it not be wiser, when you choose a queen, 
to select some older dotizc/la for your bride ? 
Though it will, I can aver, be hard to choose a 

It is just such half-way opposition that renders 
a nature like that of this young monarch all the 
more determined. No ! King Giacomo would have 
Catarina, and Catarina only, for his bride and 

But shrewd Uncle Andrea still feared the jeal- 
ousy of his fellow- Venetians. Why should the 
house of Cornaro, they would demand, be so openly 
preferred ? And so, at his suggestion, an ambas- 
sador was dispatched to Venice soliciting an alli- 
ance with the great republic, and asking from the 
Senate for his highness, the King of Cyprus, the 
hand of some high-born maid of Venice in marriage. 
But the ambassador had special and secret instruc- 
tions from King Giacomo just how and whom to 

The ambassador came to Venice, and soon the 
Senate issued its commands that, upon a certain 
day, the noblest and fairest of the daughters of 
Venice — one from each of the patrician fami- 
lies — should appear in the great Council Hall of 
the Ducal Palace, in order that the ambassador 
of the King of Cyprus might select a fitting bride 
for his royal master. It reads quite like one of the 
old fairy-stories, does it not ? 

The Palace of the Doges — the Palazzo Ducale 
of old Venice — is familiar to all who have ever 
seen a picture of the Square of St. Mark, the best 
known spot in that famous City of the Sea. It 
is the low, rectangular, richly decorated building 
with its long row of columns and arcades so well 
described by Mr. Stockton in St. Nicholas some 
months ago. It has seen many a splendid pageant, 
but it never witnessed a fairer sight than when, on 
a certain bright day of the year 1468, seventy-two 
of the daughters of Venice, gorgeous in the rich 
costumes of that most lavish city of a lavish age, 
gathered in the great Consiglio, or Council Hall. 

Up the Scala d'Oro, or Golden Staircase, built 
solely for the use of the nobles, came these girls of 
Venice, escorted by the ducal guards in their rich- 

est uniforms. The great Council Hall was one mass 
of color ; the splendid dresses of the ladies, the 
scarlet robes of the senators and high officials of 
the Republic, the imposing vestments of the old 
Doge, Cristofero Moro, as he sat in state upon 
his massive throne, and the bewildering array of 
the seventy-one candidates for a king's choice. 
Seventy-one, I say, for in all that company of 
puffed and powdered, coifed and combed young 
ladies, standing tall and uncomfortable on their 
ridiculously high-heeled shoes, one alone was 
simply dressed and apparently unaffected by the 
gorgeousness of her companions, — the seventy- 
second and youngest of them all. 

She was a fair girl of fourteen. Face and form 
were equally beautiful, and a mass of " dark gold 
hair" crowned her '• queenly head." While the 
other girls appeared nervous or anxious, she 
seemed unconcerned, and her face wore even a 
peculiar little smile, as if she were contrasting the 
poor badgered young prince of St. Mark's Day 
with the present King of Cyprus hunting for a 


•Eh via!" she said to herself, "'tis 

almost as if it were a revenge upon us for our 
former churlishness, that he now puts us thus to 

The ambassador of Cyprus, swarthy of face 
and stately in bearing, entered the great hall. 
With him came his attendant retinue of Cypriote 
nobles. Kneeling before the Doge, the ambas- 
sador presented the petition of his master, the 
King of Cyprus, seeking alliance and friendship 
with Venice. 

" And the better to secure this and the more 
firmly to cement it, Eccellenza" said the ambas- 
sador, " my lord and master the King doth crave 
from your puissant State the hand of some high- 
born damsel of the Republic, as that of his loving 
and acknowledged Queen." 

The old Doge waved his hand toward the fair 
and waiting seventy-two. 

" Behold, noble sir," he said; " the fairest and 
noblest of our maidens of Venice. Let your eye 
seek among these a fitting bride for your lord, 
the King of Cyprus, and it shall be our pleasure 
to give her to him in such manner as shall suit 
the power and dignity of the State of Venice." 

Courteous and stately still, but with a shrewd 
and critical eye, the ambassador of Cyprus slowly 
passed from candidate to candidate, with here a 
pleasant word and there a look of admiration, to 
this one a honeyed compliment upon her beauty, 
to that one a bit of praise for her elegance of 

How oddly all this sounds to us with our modern 
and better ideas of propriety and good taste. 

But, as wc know, the King had already decided 




to whom the prize of his crown should go ; and 
so, at the proper time, the critical ambassador 
stopped before a slight girl of fourteen, dressed 
in a robe of simple whtie. 

" Donzella mta," he said courteously but in a 
low tone, " are not you the daughter of Messer 
Marco Cornaro, the noble merchant of the Via 
Merceria? " 

" I am, my lord," the girl replied. 

" My royal master greets you through me," he 
said. " He recalls the day when you sheltered him 
from danger, and he invites you to share with him 
the throne of Cyprus. Shall this be as he wishes ? " 

And the girl, with a deep courtesy, in acknowl- 
edgment of the stately obeisance of the ambassa- 
dor, said simply, "That shall be, my lord, as 
my father and his Excellency shall say." 

The ambassador of Cyprus took the young girl's 
hand, and, conducting her through all that splendid 
company, presented her before the Doge's throne. 

" Eccellenza" he said, ''Cyprus hath made her 
choice. We present to you, if so it shall please 
your Grace, our future Queen, this fair young 
maid, Catarina, the daughter of the noble Marco 
Cornaro, merchant and senator of the Republic." 

History records the splendors of the ceremonial 
with which the gray-haired old Doge, Cristofero 
Moro, in the great hall of the palace, surrounded 
by the senators of the Republic, and all the rank 
and power of the State of Venice, formally adopted 
Catarina as a " Daughter of the Republic." Thus 
to the dignity of the father's house was added the 

majesty of the Great Republic. Her marriage 
portion was placed at one hundred thousand ducats, 
and Cyprus was granted, on behalf of this "Daugh- 
ter of the Republic," the alliance and protection 
of Venice. 

The ambassador of Cyprus, standing before the 
altar of St. Mark's as the personal representative 
of his master, King Giacomo, was married as 
"proxy" to the young Venetian girl; while the 
Doge, representing the Republic, gave her away in 
marriage ; and Catarina Cornaro, amid the bless- 
ings of the priests, the shouts of the people, and 
the demonstrations of clashing music and waving 
banners, was solemnly proclaimed Queen of Cyprus, 
of Jerusalem and Armenia. 

But the display did not end here. Following the 
splendors of the marriage ceremony and the wed- 
ding-feast, came the pageant of departure. The 
Grand Canal was ablaze with gorgeous colors 
and decorations. The broad water-steps of the 
Piazza of St. Mark were soft with carpets of tapes- 
try, and at the foot of the stairs floated the most 
beautiful boat in the world, the Bucentaur, or 
State Barge, of Venice. Its high, carved prow 
and hull were one mass of golden decorations. 
White statues of the saints, carved heads of the 
lion of St. Mark, the Doge's cap and the em- 
blems of the Republic adorned it 
isShggtaill? throughout. Silken streamers of 
IflfElHiJj blue and scarlet floated from its 
|§pH| standards; and its sides were draped 
in velvet hangings of crimson and 


i88 7 .J 



royal purple. The long oars were scarlet and 
gold, and the rowers were resplendent in suits of 
blue and silver. A great velvet-covered throne 
stood on the upper deck, and at its right was a 
chair of state, glistening with gold. 

whom he had contended for his throne, or by 
some mercenary of Venice, who desired the island 
realm for that voracious Republic. 

But the Republic was not to find an easy prey. 
The young Queen Catarina proclaimed her baby boy 


Down the tapestried staircase came the Doge of 
Venice, and resting upon his arm, in a white bri- 
dal dress covered with pearls, walked the "Daugh- 
ter of the Republic" — the girl Queen Catarina. 

Soon they seated themselves upon their sump- 
tuous thrones, their glittering retinue filled the 
beautiful boat, the scarlet oars dipped into the 
water ; and then, with music playing, banners 
streaming, and a grand escort of boats, flashing 
with decorations and gorgeous with mingling col- 
ors, the bridal train floated down the Grand Canal, 
on past the outlying islands and between the great 
fortresses to where, upon the broad Adriatic, the 
galleys were waiting to take the new Queen to her 
island kingdom off the shores of Greece. And 
there, in his queer old town of Famagusta, built 
with a curious commingling of Saracen, Grecian, 
and Norman ideas, King Giacomo met his bride. 

So they were married, and for five happy years 
all went well with the young King and Queen. 
Then came troubles. King Giacomo died sud- 
denly, from a cold caught while hunting, so it 
was said ; though some averred that he had been 
poisoned, either by his half-sister Carlotta, with 

King of Cyprus, and defied the Great Republic. 
Venice, surprised at this rebellion of its adopted 
daughter, dispatched embassy after embassy to 
demand submission. The young mother, however, 
was brave and boldly maintained the rights of her 

But he, too, died. Then Catarina, true to the 
memory of her husband and her boy, strove to 
retain her rule. For years she reigned as Queen 
of Cyprus, despite the threatenings of her home 
Republic and the conspiracies of her enemies. 
Her one answer to the demands of Venice was : 

''Tell the Republic I have determined never 
again to marry. When I am dead, the throne of 
Cyprus shall go to the State, my heir. But until 
that day I am Queen of Cyprus ! " 

At length her brother Giorgio, the same who in 
earlier days had looked down with her from the 
Cornaro Palace upon the outcast Prince of Cyprus, 
came to her as ambassador of the Republic. His 
entreaties, and his assurance that, unless she com- 
plied with the Senate's demand, the protection of 
Venice would be withdrawn, and the island king- 
dom left a prey to Saracen pirates and African 


M A Y 


robbers, at last carried the day. Worn out with 
long contending, — fearful, not for herself but for 
her subjects of Cyprus, — Catarina yielded to the 
demands of the Senate, abdicated in favor of the 
Republic and returned to Venice. The same wealth 
of display and ceremonial that had attended her 
departure welcomed the return of this obedient 
daughter of the Republic, now no longer a light- 
hearted young girl, but a dethroned Queen, a 
widowed and childless woman. 

She was allowed to retain her royal title of 
Queen of Cyprus, and a noble domain was given 
her for a home, in the territory of Asola, high up 
among the northern hills. Here in a massive 
castle she held her court. It was a bright and 
happy company, the home of poetry and music, 
the arts, and all the culture and refinement of that 
age when learning belonged to the few and the 
people were sunk in dense ignorance. 

Here Titian, the great artist, painted the por- 
trait of the exiled Queen that has come down to us. 
Here she lived for years, sad in her memories of 
the past but happy in her helpfulness of others. 

The end came, however, and while on her way to 
visit her brother Giorgio in Venice, she was stricken 
with a sudden fever, and on the fifth day of July, 
1 510, she died in the palace in which she had played 
as a child. 

With pomp and display, as was the wont of 
the Great Republic, the funeral procession slowly 
passed out from the great hall of the Palazzo Cor- 
naro, across the heavily draped bridge that spanned 
the Grand Canal from the water-gate of the Palace, 
and along the broad piazza crowded with a silent 
throng. And in the great Cornaro tomb in the 
family chapel at last was laid to rest the sorrowful 
Queen of Cyprus, the once bright and beautiful 
" Daughter of the Republic." 


By Frank. Dempster Sherman. 

\Y shall make the world anew : 

Golden sun and silver dew — 
Money minted in the sky — 
Shall the earth's new garments buy. 
May shall make the orchard bloom: 
And the blossoms' fine perfume 
Shall set all the honey-bees 
Murmuring among the trees. 
May shall make the bud appear 
Like a jewel, crystal clear, 
'Mid the leaves upon the limb 
Where the robin lilts his hymn. 
May shall make the wild-flowers tell 
Where the shining snow-flakes fell: 
Just as though each snow-flake's heart, 
By some secret, magic art, 
Were transmuted to a flower 
In the sunlight and the shower. 
Is there such another, pray, 
Wonder-making month as May? 

j88 7 .1 



By Frances Courtenay Baylor. 


(SEE P. 493.) 

Chapter VII. 

Even Juan did not dare approach- the Indian 
camp by daylight, and he and Nita remained 
concealed on the cliff all the next day until it was 
quite dark. It was weary work waiting for the 
hours to pass, but there was no help for it; and as 
for Amigo, he was disgusted to find himself in 
fault no matter what he did. The friendliest bark 
or whine seemed to be misinterpreted; an inno- 

cent frisk, gambol, or growl was instantly sup- 
pressed; and every little diversion in the way of 
running into the bushes got him into trouble. 
Finally he gave up trying to understand these 
senseless whims of his capricious mistress and dis- 
agreeable master, and curled himself up at Nita's 
feet in a very sulky mood. But when Juan took 
himself off at evening to find out what the Indians 
were doing, and Nita showed her appreciation of 
her four-footed companion's services as a faithful 




and devoted friend, by putting one arm around 
his neck and confiding to him that she was lonely 
and frightened, Amigo weakly relented and be- 
came his usual forgiving, loving, slobbering self. 
Juan returned sooner than she expected, and 
seemed well satisfied with his observations. 

" They are all packed and ready to start ; they 
will be off before daylight to-morrow morning, 
you will see," he announced cheerfully, and he 
was not mistaken. While it was still dark he 
climbed to the top of a great oak that commanded 
an extensive view of the surrounding country, and 

«fc ,r«-'&V.V- ' 


smiled, well pleased, when he saw the Indians file 
slowly out of the woods, their slouching figures 
dimly visible in the uncertain light. The band 
appeared a black dot on the plain for a time, then 
two black dots, as after a halt it separated, one 
party turning their faces to the south, the other 
toward the northwest. Juan was shouting and 
laughing so joyously and triumphantly when he 
came scrambling up the sides of the cliff, that he 
awoke Nita from a sound sleep in a fright that 
she had been discovered by her dreaded enemies. 
" Gone ! gone ! all gone ! " shouted out Juan ; 

"and now come ! Don't stay here another minute. 
They will not be back here for many a day. They 
have sent the old men and most of the provisions 
home, and the others, I think, are off on a raid." 
Moved by an impulse of natural curiosity they 
went at once to the deserted camp. The children 
found only the remains of a fire, the scaffolding 
on which the meat had been dried and, scattered 
on the ground, a few handfuls of corn which they 
eagerly picked up. But fortunately, just as they 
were leaving, Nita spied a strip of venison that 
had been overlooked, hanging from a cross-pole. 
When they returned to the river, 
Juan exclaimed, "Now that we can 
build a fire, I '11 catch some fish. If 
the Indians see the smoke, they will 
think their own camp fire has caught 
some dry wood and blazed up ; but 
I '11 not make more than is neces- 

On examining the pack, however, 
Juan found everything except what 
he most needed and had counted on. 
* The fishing-tackle that he had so in- 

; a geniously constructed was nowhere 

to be found ! It had been forgotten 
and left behind in a corner of the 
cave, and the children almost quar- 
reled in the eagerness with which 
each tried to prove that it was the 
fault of the other. But the fact re- 
mained, and another fact was equally 
certain — the tackle could not be 
duplicated. So they made the best 
of a bad situation, and sat down on 
the river's bank, under the shade of 
a group of grand old oaks, and ate 
slowly and sparingly of the dry corn 
and drier meat that not all the water 
at hand could make very palatable. 
The children were further aggra- 
vated by the behavior of the fish be- 
low them, which, as if fully under- 
standing what had happened, would 
swim lazily around and about the 
roots of a willow that overhung the stream, bump 
their noses against the bank, and eye the children 
impudently, as if to say, " Oh, you are there, are 
you ? Why don't you come and catch us, pray ? " 
and then swim lazily away again. They would rush 
at little sticks which Juan threw in, showing him 
what he could do if only, instead of loose sticks, he 
had bait on a hook attached to a line. At last he 
could stand it no longer. He could not fish, but he 
would shoot. Together the children tramped many 
a mile that day, but what little game they saw fled 
before them, and it was with great difficulty that, 


4 9 I 

with Amigo's help, Juan got one rabbit late in the 

"Oh, dear! when we get food, we never have 
any water; and when we get water, the food 
always gives out," complained Nita. 

"There is no use in our staying here. We 
should starve. The Indians have been here too 
long. We will start again this evening," said Juan, 
disappointed of the rest and comfort he had ex- 
pected, anxious to linger near the river, yet afraid 
to do so. 

With the fixed idea of reaching Mexico, Juan 
took his bearings afresh and crossed the river 
before dark, facing southwest. That evening the 
children walked eight miles and slept in the open 

All the next day they trudged along patiently 
under a hot sun. The day after, they began to 
suffer again from the old heat and thirst and hun- 
ger, the old weariness and depression. At the 
close of that day they gnawed eagerly at the one 
bone left from their rabbit ; it was then given to 
Amigo, who ground it to powder with his strong 
white teeth and stood at "attention," waiting for 
more. They had kept a sharp lookout for some- 
thing to eat, but the game was still unapproach- 
able. They were so hungry that they could not go 
to sleep for the gnawing pain they were enduring, 
and Juan dug up some roots with which to satisfy 
this craving. At last, overcome by their great 
weariness, they dropped off to troubled slumber 
and awoke to another ten hours of varied and 
acute physical misery. Happily Juan had found 
at the camp a leathern bottle which had been 
discarded or forgotten by the Indians, and this he 
had filled at the river. It saved them much suffer- 
ing, but a diet of roots and tepid water is not the 
most strengthening in the world. That afternoon 
they were limping wearily over a high plateau, 
across which they had been traveling for two days, 
when suddenly they found themselves on the very 
brink of a precipice. 

Looking across a wide chasm, they could see a 
sheer wall of rock on the other side, extending 
indefinitely on either hand, and beyond that a con- 
tinuation of the plateau. It was a great surprise 
to them, but while Nita saw in it only an insuper- 
able obstacle to further progress, to Juan it brought 
renewed animation and hope. Peering over the 
side as fearlessly as though he were a Rocky 
Mountain sheep, Juan made out, through the 
shadows that were already gathering in the lower 
part of the canon, a delightful little river at the 

The setting sun sent beautiful oblique shafts of 
light down into the opening, and several flocks of 
doves wheeled above it. " I wish we could drop 

down there as easily as they can," said Juan, 
pointing to them; "but we must get there some- 
how, and before night, too. If we are quick about 
it, we may get some game at once. There is always 
a chance of it, where there is water. Come ! If 
there are any deer about, I must get down before 
they all have had water and gone out into the hills 
again." He took another look into and along the 
abyss to see if there was anything that indicated a 
break in its surface, and finding nothing, he 
started off at random along the brink. By a most 
fortunate chance — if it was chance — he had come 
upon the canon not a quarter of a mile from an 
intersecting, tortuous ravine, the only entrance to 
it on that side in a distance of fifteen miles. 

Juan knew very well that it was only a chance 
whether he should find an opening that night or a 
week later ; so it was no wonder that he gave vent 
to a shout of delight when he came to the deep 
ravine, cleft in the plateau by some such convul- 
sion of nature as had created the canon. It was 
thickly filled with dwarf oaks and pines and under- 
growth, and had a distinct trail running down it, 
made by game of different kinds. 

" Lots of deer and turkeys must come to this 
place," he cried. "Just look at the tracks — how 
thick they are, and coming in from every direc- 
tion ! Hurrah ! Here we go ! " 

Tired as they both were, they were so inspired 
by the thought of getting food that they fairly ran 
down the ravine for some distance. The descent 
was not easy, by any means, and was extremely 
steep in some places. Their clothes were torn 
again and again ; their faces and hands were 
scratched by the long, sharp mesquite thorns until 
they bled ; they walked over beds of cacti some- 
times, picking their way as best they could. 

Twice Nita grew dizzy and, with her eyes either 
shut or fixed on the sky above her, had to be guided 
by Juan along a narrow ledge that skirted the 
rock. The sight of the depths below was more 
than she could bear. At last they got on level 
ground and found that what had looked like a 
very narrow strip of ground, when seen from the 
plateau, had widened out into quite a valley, as 
green and fresh as possible, — having one most 
beautiful feature that has given it the name, 
among both the Indians and white men, of the 
" Canon of Roses." 

How the flowers came to grow there, no one could 
say ; but there they were, running up to the very 
edge of the cliffs, mantling the face of the rocks 
for hundreds of yards, blooming in inconceivable 
profusion and beauty, perfuming all the air, throw- 
ing out myriads of tendrils full of prodigal promise 
in folded bud and leaf, — an exquisite sight ! 

Little short-breathed cries of " Linda ! Her- 



mosa ! Magnified ! * " went up from Juan and 
Juanita as they sank panting on the earth. Unac- 
customed as they were to noticing such things, 
they could not but be struck by the loveliness of 
the place. It seemed a little heaven to them, with 
its sweet flowers and grass, its trees and river, its 
coolness and delicious odors, its soft light and 
growing shadows. After the heat and glare and 
misery of that journey over the plateau, it seemed 
enough joy merely to look and live with such sur- 
roundings. But hunger is an importunate creditor 
and can not long be put off. 

"The evening is drawing down and the game will 
be coming in soon," said Juan, when his thoughts 
reverted to the great question of food; "we will 
hide now." Nita agreed to this, and they rose 
and carefully concealed themselves behind some 
bushes near the plainest trail they could find, and 
had hardly done so when several fine old bucks 
came trotting fearlessly up the valley, and went 
down into the river — but on the opposite side. The 
sight of them excited Juan tremendously. What 
if he should be on the wrong side of the stream ? 
Should he swim across it and conceal himself over 
there? Then he remembered the unmistakable 
evidences afforded by the deer-run he was guard- 
ing; and rightly concluding that there was also an 
opening on the other side of the canon, which 
might well be investigated later, he kept perfectly 
still and quiet. The next moment he heard a 
little metallic clink of hoofs against the rock, and 
then a slight cough. His heart bounded and beat 
almost to suffocation. Looking around, he and 
Nita saw an old doe and two beautiful little spotted 
fawns coming directly down the trail they were 

The children scarcely dared to breathe. The 
wind was blowing away from the deer ; and the 
doe, scenting no danger, came on, followed by 
her pretty innocents, until she got nearly opposite 
the young hunters and very near their.. Juan 
promptly decided to shoot the doe and then try 
afterward to get the fawns, which he knew would 
be apt to linger near their mother. Accordingly, 
just as the doe got beyond him, he rose to shoot. 
But he could not do it ! He could not so much as 
take aim. He trembled so violently that his arrow 
bobbed irresolutely up and down as if in a con- 
vulsion, nor could he steady it. His knees fairly 
knocked together, and although he made the most 
violent efforts to control himself, he could not suc- 
ceed. He held his breath ; he set his teeth ; he 
was furious with himself; but for the life of him 
he could not shoot ! 

It was no feeling of compassion for the creatures 
before him that unnerved him, although they 
might very well have appealed to his heart ; it 

was not that he was overcome by all that he had 
lately undergone ; it was simply that he was 
suffering from an acute attack of " buck ague." 

This is a disease that all men with a passion for 
field sports have felt. Those who have never 
known it have never fully enjoyed hunting ; but 
the worst of it is, it always makes its appearance 
at the wrong time. Juan had never experienced 
it before, and could not imagine what was the 
matter with him. He kept pointing at the motherly 
old doe until she had quite passed by, and then 
he feebly tried to aim at each of the fawns, but all 
in vain. He was so weak that he had to sit down, 
Nita staring at him all the while in mute but in- 
tense astonishment. 

" Are you ill ? " she whispered, finally, alarmed 
by his appearance and behavior. 

" Keep still," whispered Juan in return. "Keep 
still ! " 

He then set to work in earnest to conquer him- 
self. He put his bow down, drew a long breath, 
and gave himself a severe lecture in this wise, 
" You ninny, why are you trembling and shaking 
so ? You could n't hit the side of a mountain, 
much less a deer, in your present state. And what 
if you do miss ? It is n't the only deer in the 
world. Steady yourself, and be cool now, and 
take good aim." 

Meanwhile the doe and her little ones had gone 
down into the river; and a lovely picture they 
made as they stood there, the mother dignified, 
gentle, protecting; now moving about gracefully 
in the clear stream; now stopping and glancing 
about her, as if to make sure that all was well and 
her children in no danger; now stretching her 
neck down and letting the water ripple into her 
mouth ; and ever casting looks of tender, con- 
tented love on the fawns as they frisked about and 
drank, and gave playful bounds and leaps here 
and there, all joy and innocent beauty. The 
whole group ought first to have been transferred 
to one of Landseer's canvases, and then to an 
animal paradise of perennial grass, limpid waters, 
and perfect peace. But alas ! Juan was himself 
again. His bow no longer trembled, the arrow 
had been carefully chosen and fitted into place. 

The river episode was the pleasantest of the day 
to the fawns, and they were in no hurry to end it; 
but the doe, seeing that they had drunk their fill, 
and that it was getting late, exerted her authority 
and finally succeeded in leading them up the 
green bank again. Here, in a moment, she 
caught scent of the children, and came on slowly, 
stepping very high, with head and tail erect, her 
whole expression one of uneasy alertness. Her 
great, soft, black eyes roved anxiously from point 
to point, while the fawns trotted along at her 

' Beautiful ! Lovely ! Magnificent ! 



side in happy ignorance of such things as enemies 
or arrows. 

Nita, too eager to see what was passing, rose 
upon her knees just at the moment that Juan was 
about to shoot, and accidentally jogged his elbow 
as he let his arrow fly. The doe had not had 
time fully to make out what Juan was. The arrow 
passed over her back, and she wheeled and ran in 
the direction it had taken. It struck a dead tree 
and knocked down a large piece of bark, which 
fell in front of the doe, and she wheeled back 
toward the children, confused, and uncertain where 
the danger lay. She stopped so near them that 
they could hear her breathing, and then walked 
back to where the bark had fallen. The moment 
had come ! Juan, whose nerves were now entirely 
under control, took aim at her heart, and let 
drive his shaft. The doe sprang high into the air 
and ran off with outstretched neck, her tail whip- 
ping from side to side, a deadly fear for her fawns 
at her heart, more agonizing than the arrow that 
had given her a mortal wound. 

The fawns followed close at her heels, carrying 
their noses high in air. Suddenly the doe fell, 
turning a complete somersault. Finding their 
progress thus arrested, the fawns bounded lightly 
over her, frisked playfully on for a little distance, 
and then turned and walked back. Astonished, 
apparently, to find their mother still lying there, 
and much puzzled by her curious behavior in the 
last few minutes, they put their little noses down 
to her, as if in this way to discover the trouble, 
whatever it was. Just then the doe gave a des- 
perate, dying kick with both hind feet that 
threw the torn-up grass and leaves into the faces 
of the fawns, and drawing a deep, guttural 
breath at the same moment that frightened them 
almost out of their wits, died to them and a cruel 

The fawns tumbled back over each other in 
utter consternation. Never had their mother 
behaved in such a way ; and as if for explanation, 
they ran straight toward the children, who were 
advancing to secure their prize. When they came 
quite close, the fawns received an explanation that 
even they understood. Nita's bow was strung, and 
she was anxious for a shot, so taking good aim, 
she sent an arrow deep into the side of the nearest. 
Juan also shot and struck the same one. 

Bleating pitifully, it ran off down the valley, 
followed by its terrified little companion, Amigo 
after them, convinced that he had caught a deer 
and could hunt as well as some other people. 
Juan pursued, and when the fawn fell, seized it 
and dragged it back to a place near his camp. 
Satisfied with the food in hand, he had allowed 
the second fawn to escape. 

The change from an empty wallet to an abun- 
dance of good meat was a cheering one ; and 
untroubled by sentimental regret, Juan's eyes glis- 
tened greedily as he cut piece after piece from the 
doe, which was in excellent condition, and from 
the fat little fawn. These he strung, a bit of lean 
and a bit of fat alternately, on a pole sharpened at 
both ends, and carried it over to the camp, unable 
to think of the future until his present longing was 

Nita had a hot fire ready, and with a vigorous 
thrust he stuck one end of the pole in the ground 
before the blaze. The venison soon began to give 
out savory odors, and as the children heard the 
fat hissing and sputtering, and saw the juices run- 
ning out of the meat, they gave vent to a great many 
exclamations expressive of the liveliest satisfaction 
and pleasantest anticipations. As they watched it 
growing browner and browner, they could hardly 
wait for it to cook ; and the very instant it was done, 
Juan stretched out his hand to seize the pole and 
actually had it in his grasp, when a tremendous 
uproar reached his ears, causing him to replace 
it hastily. 

The noise sounded like that made by horses' 
feet in running, then followed a few short yelps, 
and then Amigo rushed into camp with five or 
six wolves at his heels. He had been left to 
guard the meat at the place where it had been 
butchered, but the coyotes had smelt the blood, 
and invited themselves to supper. Amigo, finding 
the odds too great, had fled and been pursued, 
and here they all, dog and wolves, were growling, 
snarling, howling terrifically not a dozen yards 
away ! The din and the suddenness of the onset 
frightened Nita so dreadfully that she ran away as 
fast as her legs could carry her. Great was her 
horror of wolves at any time, and it was not sur- 
prising that she could not face a pack of them at a 
moment's notice. 

Juan, however, had been growing more self- 
reliant every day since he left the Comanche 
camp, and stood his ground bravely. Quick as 
thought he seized a brand from the fire and thrust 
it among the wolves. Not expecting an attack at 
all, much less one of so startling a nature, they 
shrunk back cowed, and slunk off, leaving the 
children to feast at their leisure, if not precisely 
at their ease. 

Juan built up the fire before he lay down for the 
night, and even began the process of "jerking" 
meat by putting some of it on a little scaffold of 
green boughs well above the flame ; but he was 
too tired to do much. During the night they 
were several times wakened by the whistling of the 
deer that came down to water ; and Juan, more 
than half asleep, would get up, mechanically turn 




over the meat, renew the fire, and drop down 
again by Nita's side. 

Nita thought the wolves were upon them each 
time, and would have kept awake if it had been 
possible ; but her great weariness always got the 

on the right and left, she slept profoundly ; but 
there was no rest for a certain little fawn which 
wandered up and down the valley all the night 
long seeking the mother it had lost, wandering 
it knew not where, bleating plaintively in the 

better of her fears. Guarded by Juan and Amigo darkness, a most unhappy dear little deer. 

(To be continued.) 


By Joel Stacy. 

They dressed me, one day, for a juvenile ball, 
In a long-tailed coat and a chapeau tall, 
And ruffles and bows and an eye-glass, too, 
And a wig finished off with an odd little queue ; 
But what I was meant for I hardly knew. 

" You belong to Directory days, my dear," 
They said, which struck me at least as queer, 
For I knew that the mass of the people in town, 
From De Courcey and Astor to Jenkins and Brown, 
Were in the Directory all set down. 

My sisters strove hard my attention to fix, — 
I heard, " No, in France," and " In ninety-six," 
And "Turbulent days," and "Yes, there were five"; 
And each to out-rattle the other would strive — 
They buzzed in my ear till I felt like a hive. 

" Oh, is n't he perfect ? " they cried in delight 
(And, really, I was n't a very bad sight !) 
But every youngster, I '11 venture to say, 
At the ball, whether peasant or clown or fa)', 
Had been praised at home in the self-same way. 

Well, all but me were as plain as your hat ; 
At once you could say, they are this or they 're that : 
I even knew good little George with his hatchet, 
Without, I must own, any sapling to match it; 
And you felt, at a glance, he expected to " catch it." 

I recognized Tell by his high Swiss hat, 
His boy with the apple a-top, and all that ; 
But all of the characters stared at me, 
As if to say, — " What on earth can he be ? " 
And what was the use of my saying, you see, 
Why, I ? I am from the Directory ! " 


If you go to a fancy-dress party, take care 

First to learn all about the queer costume you wear ! 

i88 7 .J 



You will find the hills green, 
And in valleys between 
Wild violets telling the story 
Of how I caressed them 

With sun-waves and shower, 
And fed them and dressed them, — 
Yes, every small flower 
That smiles in its blue-purple glory. 

And my dearest child May, 
If you find things delay — 
Like buds, which oft linger brown-coated - 
Do not worry or fret, 

But wait gently awhile ; 
That a frown never yet 
Did the work of a smile 
Is something I often have noted. 




By Mary L. B. Branch. 

You need n't ask Nan to a party, 

A dinner or five o'clock tea, 
Three weeks from to-day, — which is Thursday, - 

For " engaged " and " at home " she will be. 

She set her white Brahma this morning, 
In a box with sweet hay for a bed, 

On a dozen great eggs, all a-flutter, 
With plumy wings softly outspread. 

The hen looks so proud and important, 
With her treasures hid under her breast! 

Every feather alive if you touch her, 
As if warning vou off from her nest. 

And the capable creature will sit there, 

Come sunshine, come storm, or what may, 

With her wings and her warmth and her wisdom, 
Till exactly three weeks from to-day. 

And then / oh, the downy soft treasures, 
The dear little yellow round things, 

That will break from the shells and come peeping, 
And stretching their small helpless wings ! 

Oh ! you need n't ask Nan to a party 

Or a dinner or five o'clock tea, 
Three weeks from to-day, — which is Thursday, — 

For " at home " and " engaged " she will be ! 

By James Otis. 

Chapter VI. 

the arrest. 

PlNNEY was in such distress of mind at being 
marched through the streets like a criminal, that 
he paid very little attention to anything save his 
own sad condition ; and his friends and brother- 
directors had followed him for some distance before 
he had any idea that sympathizers were near. 
But at last Duddy, bolder than the others, walked 
up close behind him and said quickly, with a 
reckless disregard of the officers of the law : 
" Hi ! Pinney, what have you been doin' ? " 
"Oh, Duddy!" cried poor little Pinney, at- 
tempting to turn, but forced by his captors to 
march straight on ; " they 've 'rested me for 
stealin' things, an' I never took a cent ! I was 
only doin' a' errand." 

" Where are they takin' you now ? " 

It is not probable that the prisoner knew where 

he was being led, but all attempts to gain further 

information were prevented by one of the officers, 

who at that moment sternly commanded him to 

''hold his tongue"; while the other dispersed 
Pinney's followers by turning and shaking his club 
at them. 

" Hold on, fellers ! " Duddy shouted, after they 
had retreated to what was thought to be a safe 
distance. "The cops won't foller us, an' we 've 
got to know where they 're takin' Pinney. I don't 
believe he 's been stealin' any money, an' we must 
try to get him out of this scrape." 

" Of course he took it, or else they would n't 
have 'rested him," said Sam, with an air of supe- 
rior wisdom. " I should n't wonder if he got the 
money for the medicine after all, an' was tryin' to 
get away with it when they nabbed him." 

" You oughter be 'shamed to say such a thing, 
Sam Tousey," replied Ikey indignantly. "Wasn't 
I with him, an' don't I know whether he got it or 
not ? " 

" He might 'a' gone back after you left him, an' 
got the dollar," suggested Sam. " I allers thought 
he 'd get the best of us if he could." 

" See here, Sam," and Tom advanced threaten- 
ingly as he spoke ; " you 're not goin' to say any- 
thing mean 'bout Pinney White while I 'm 'round. 




Did n't Ikey bring the 
medicine with him ? 
How could Finney get 
the money back if he 
did n't have the bot- 
tle ? " 

"Come, Tom, don't 
waste time talkin' to 
such as him," said 
Duddy, as he gave 
Master Sam Tousey 
a threatening look. 
" It 's no use to pay- 
any 'tention to him 
till you 've nothin' 
else to do. We 've 
got to help Pinney, 
an' we 've got to find 
out where they 're go- 
in' to take him. You 
an' I an' Ikey '11 foller 
as close as we dare, 
an' the rest of the fel- 
lers can go to work." 

At this proposition 
several of the boys 
raised objections, as 
they thought it was 
the duty of all to be 
ready to aid the pris- 
oner; and Buddy had 
considerable difficulty 
in persuading them 
to do as he had sug- 

"If the whole crowd 
chases on behind him, 
they '11 surely drive 
us away; but the cop- 
pers won't take any 
notice of three of us. 
The rest of you fel- 
lers stay here, an' we 
'11 come right back 
and tell you what we 
find out." 

" We 'd all better 
go to work," suggest- 
ed Sam. "You may 
get into an awful 
scrape if you let on 
that you know him. 
Jest as likely as not 
they '11 'rest every- 
body in the house, if 
they find out where 
Pinney lives." 

49 8 



There was no necessity for cither Duddy or Tom 
to threaten Sam in order to prevent hirn from mak- 
ing any more such unfriendly remarks, for nearly 
every other member of the party started toward 
him, and it was only by an immediate and rapid 
flight that he saved himself from punishment. 
■ " Now come on before the boys get back from 
chasing Sam," said Duddy, as he turned and ran 
at full speed in the direction taken by the officers 
and their prisoner, while Tom and Ikey followed 

The pursuers did not think it advisable to 
attemot to hold any conversation with the unfort- 
unate boy. They remained discreetly in the rear 
until they saw the policemen lead Finney into the 
Tombs prison, and heard the heavy doors close 
behind him with a clang that sounded ominously 
in their ears. The friends of the unfortunate 
prisoner stood gazing in silence at the gray, for- 
bidding walls which shut out their comrade from 
Jenny's boarding-house and liberty. 

" Well," said Duddy with a long-drawn sigh, 
after a pause of several moments, " that jest 
knocks me! If it was Sam they 'd locked up, I 
would n't 'a' wondered at it so much, but Finney 
White never did any harm to anybody. It would 
serve 'em right if all the boys in the city should 
get together an' tear their old jail down." 

Ikey looked critically at the massive structure, 
as if he were trying to make up his mind at what 
point they had best begin work, and then said 
in a matter-of-fact tone : 

" 1 guess we 'd better leave that for this after- 
noon. What we must do is to cook up some kind 
of a plan to help Pinney." 

"Yes, an' we promised to tell the other fellers 
what we 'd found out," added Tom ; " so the best 
thing we can do now is to go back down town. 
Then we '11 tell Jenny what 's up, an' p'r'aps she 
can think of somethin' to do." 

So excited were the three who had seen poor Pin- 
ney consigned to the prison, that walking seemed 
to them far too slow a method of getting over the 
ground ; and they ran as fast as possible, arriving 
in front of one of the newspaper offices breathless, 
yet eager to tell the story to their friends who 
were waiting there for them. 

Although every boy who had seen the unfortu- 
nate prisoner had good reason to believe that he 
would be taken to a jail, each one appeared to be 
filled with the utmost surprise and consternation 
at the news that Pinney was really in the Tombs. 
For several moments no one could suggest any- 
thing to be done for the relief of their comrade, 
and even Sam was made silent by the sad tidings. 

" Well, we can't stand here the rest of the day," 
Duddy said impatiently, after he had waited in vain 

for somebody to say something; "we must tell 
Jenny, an' we ought to know how November is 
gettin' on." 

" You an' Ikey an' I '11 go up to the house, while 
the rest of the fellers wait for us here," said Tom, 
starting off at full speed as he spoke, thus prevent- 
ing any discussion on the part of the others. Ikey 
and Duddy followed close by his side. 

Those who had been left behind stood on the cor- 
ner discussing the matter during the best part of 
the afternoon, without any thought of going to 
work. Many were the plans proposed for the re- 
lief of their friend, but all of them so impossible 
of execution that it is not probable even those who 
originated them believed they could be carried 
out; but this discussion at least served to make 
the boys feel better in mind. 

At the boarding-house the sorrow was intense. 
Even November's illness was forgotten for the 
moment, and Mrs. Parsons blamed herself severely 
for having spoken so sharply to Pinney when, cer- 
tainly with the best intentions, he had brought 
home the medicine. 

" Pinney always meant well, even when he was 
doing the most mischief," the old lady said, as she 
tried to wipe away the tears which would persist in 
falling on poor little November's face. "It was 
wicked in me to be so cross with him when he 
came in with what he thought would cure the 
baby. Is n't there anything we can do for him ? " 

This was exactly what the boys had been asking 
themselves without having found a satisfactory 
answer to the question ; and it was still unanswered 
when the boarders came home in the evening, 
only to find that owing to her great sorrow the 
landlady had entirely forgotten to prepare dinner. 
This trifling neglect no one except Sam appeared 
to notice ; it would have seemed far more strange 
if, in view of all that had happened, the boarding- 
house had been conducted as usual ; and it is 
quite probable that there would have been but 
little fault-finding if Jenny had said that she did 
not intend to cook anything that night. 

The physician whom Jenny had called appeared 
to think that November would soon recover from 
his illness, and, in fact, the little fellow did seem 
to improve so rapidly during the evening, that the 
inmates of the boarding-house were free to give 
all their sympathy to the imprisoned director. 
They speculated upon the facilities he would have 
for sleeping ; wondered if he were troubled in 
mind because of November, whom he had every 
reason to believe was dangerously ill ; and they 
tried to picture to themselves the sad scene of 
Pinney in a narrow cell, loaded down with chains. 
Sam was positive that their brother-director was 
not only gagged, but fastened with irons to the 

l88 7 .] 



wall of some dungeon ; and he drew upon his im- 
agination so recklessly that Duddy exclaimed : 

" Now see here, Sam ; it 's bad enough to know 
that Pinney is in jail, without your talkin' so much 
about chains an' handcuffs, an' all that kind o' non- 
sense. I don't believe they 've got him strapped 
up at all ; but whether they have or not, we must 
think up some way to get him out." 

" I don't see what we can do," said Tom with a 
puzzled look. "They would n't listen to us boys 
in court, an' we can't get him out of the jail." 

" Jest as likely as not we can say somethin' in 
court," said Duddy, and his face lighted up with 
hope. " Any way, we can hang 'round there till 
we see him, an' p'r'aps we '11 get a chance to do 

"If you fellers say the word, I '11 go down to 
the jail first thing in the mornin', an' scare 'em 
into lettin' him out," said Sam, willing now to be 
recognized as a friend of Pinney's if thereby he 
could appear to have charge of the matter. 

"You have n't time," said Jack with a laugh. 
" You 'd have to hang 'round there 'bout seven 
years before you could scare anybody ! " 

The other boys laughed so heartily at Jack's 
remark that Master Tousey thought it his duty to 
have another attack of the sulks ; and he began by 
saying : 

" Some of the folks in this house think nobody 
can do anythin' but themselves. I was willin' to 
try to get Pin White outer the scrape ; but you 're 
all so smart that I '11 let you see what you can do 
first. An' after that, p'r'aps you '11 be glad to 
have me take hold of the job." 

" You can go an' scare the folks that keep the 
jail if you want to, Sammy ; but it won't be any 
harm for us to think up somethin' to do, if you 
should n't make out all right," said Duddy; and 
he added, as a sudden and happy thought occurred 
to him, " I tell you what it is, fellers, let 's all go 
down an' stay 'round the outside awhile. It must 
be lonesome for Pinney, thinkin' that every one 
of us is up here." 

" He would n't know we were there," objected 

" That 's a fact ; but we 'd know it, an' it would 
seem as if we was stickin' by him." 

It is probable that Duddy's unprofitable plan 
would have been carried out at once, if Mrs. 
Parsons had not volunteered her advice. She pro- 
posed that they all go to bed as soon as they had 
eaten their dinner, because Pinney would not be 
benefited, even though they should remain in 
front of the jail all night; but that in the morning 
some of them should go to the court. It was 
possible, she thought, that they might find a 
lawyer who would take charge of Pinney's case, if 

they promised to pay him as soon as they could 
earn the money. 

This seemed even better than Sam's idea of 
securing the prisoner's release by frightening the 
officers ; and after quite a spirited argument be- 
tween Tom and Duddy, during which the latter 
insisted that they should at least walk down to the 
Tombs that night, Mrs. Parsons' advice was fol- 
lowed. None of the prisoner's friends slept very 
soundly, however, and every one was up and 
dressed at least an hour earlier than usual. 

While they were eating breakfast, Jenny gave 
them some very sensible advice, to the effect that 
work should not be suspended because of the 
trouble which had come upon them. She recom- 
mended that Ikey and Duddy go to the court- 
room, while the others make every effort to earn 
money with which to pay a lawyer for defending 
their comrade. 

Tom understood at once that two of the party 
would be able to do more than a crowd, and he 
insisted so strongly that Jenny's advice should be 
followed, that no one seriously objected. 

The baby was much better, and Mrs. Parsons 
assured the boys that they need feel no uneasiness 
concerning him. Accordingly they left the house 
eager to begin work, hoping thus to help the 
comrade who needed their aid so sadly. 

Ikey and Duddy tried to content themselves by 
assisting Jenny; but the minutes passed so slowly, 
and they were so anxious to begin their portion 
of the duties of the day, that they could no longer 
control their impatience after the clock had struck 
the hour of seven. Although Mrs. Parsons in- 
sisted that the court would not be opened for an 
hour at least, they decided to start at once, in 
order, as Duddy said, " to get a front seat so 's to 
whisper to Pinney when he 's brought in." 

As a matter of course, when they arrived at the 
Tombs they found the doors of the court-room 
closed, and not even a single policeman on guard 
to answer the questions they had intended to ask. 
They could do no more than seat themselves on 
the ice-covered steps, there to wait until such 
time as the public should be admitted. 

While they were thus waiting, occupied with 
gloomy forebodings and a vain effort to keep warm, 
Tom suddenly appeared, eager and breathless. 

" I came to bring what money the fellers have 
made, 'cause you '11 need it if you hire a lawyer 
for Pinney," he said, as he gave Ikey a handful 
of pennies and small coins. " Every feller is workin' 
jest as hard as he can, an' I '11 bring you some 
more in an hour. Don't slip up on any chance to 
get him out of the scrape, an' if money is all that 's 
wanted, we'll have that, sure." Then Tom darted 
down the steps shouting, at the full strength of his 




lungs, the principal items of news contained in 
the morning papers. 

Neither Ikey nor Duddy had thought of engag- 
ing a lawyer until they should have consulted Pin- 

Ikey evidently expected to see his brother-di- 
rector return in a very short time, followed by at 
least one lawyer ; and he would not have been 
surprised had he seen three or four. But the 

ney ; but Tom's words suggested the desirability minutes went by until an hour passed, and Duddy 

of so doing while they had plenty of time at their 
disposal, and Duddy said : 

" You stay here so 's you can slip in the very 
minute the doors are opened, an' I '11 look 'round 
to see what kind of a lawyer I can find, 'cause 
p'r'aps we would n't have a chance after we see 
Pinney. I know a place where there are about a 
hundred lawyers' offices, an' we can get one there, 
I guess, after we flash up all this money." 

" Don't stay long," said Ikey, his teeth chatter- 
ing with the cold. " If I get in before you come 
back, I '11 save a seat for you by the side o' me." 

had not come. One by one a crowd gathered on 
the steps ; and Ikey almost forgot his own sorrow 
as he realized how many other unhappy people 
there were in the city. Only the night previous 
he had believed that the inmates of Jenny's board- 
ing-house were in more trouble than all the rest 
of the world combined. 

Duddy was still absent when the court-room 
door was finally opened ; and despite all his efforts, 
Ikey did not succeed in reserving what he con- 
sidered a desirable seat for his friend. There were 
so many who were eager to be where they could 

Duddy was off like a shot, the pennies jingling speak to the prisoners, that the treasurer found 

in his pocket as he ran and, as he thought, giving himself crowded back half way down the room 

such evidence of wealth that any attorney whom he toward the door, and even then it was with difficulty 

met would be eager to plead Pinney's case. that he reserved a very small space for Duddy. 

(To be continued.) 

By M. D. Fenner. 

YOUNG Master Robin Early Bird 

And Susy Scarlet Feather, 
Whene'er the da)- was warm and fair, 

Would take a walk together ; 
He took along his poodle small. 

And she her three black kittens, — 
They were not those three naughty ones 

That used to wash their mittens. 

I can not quite persuade myself," 
Said young Miss Scarlet Feather, 

That kittens should remain indoors 
And miss this charming weather." 

I v. S^~, , ,:-.a ■ V 

L'htv* '' ' k ' *' "" i I'- -■ *■ & 


i88 7 .J 




By Mary E. Wilkins. 

ANOTHER map, an please you, sir! 
For why, we can not understand, 
In all your great geography- 
There is no map of Fairyland. 

Another map, an please you, sir ! 
And, afterward, describe in full 
How Fairyland is famed for pearls, 
And fleeces made from golden wool, 

And prancing, gold-shod, milk-white steeds 

With bridles set with jewel-eyes : 

Tell how the Fairy rivers run, 

And where the Fairy mountains rise, 

And of the Fairy-folk, their ways 
And customs — if it please you, sir ; 
Then, of the journey there, how long 
For any speedy traveler. 

Another map, an please you, sir ! 
And would you kindly not delay ; 
Sister and I would dearly like 
To learn our lesson there, to-day ! 


By Nora Perry. 

" Wait for me, Louise. Why are you in such 
a hurry ? " 

" Don't you know? My mother and father are 
coming home to-day, and I am going in town to 
the Boston and Albany depot, with Aunt Frances 
and Tom, to meet them." 

"Boston and Albany depot? Why, I thought 
your mother was coining from Europe ! " 

" So she is; but she has sailed by one of the 
White Star Line, and the steamships of the White 
Star Line don't come into the dock at Boston, but 
at New York," answered Louise, with so glib an 
air of knowing all about things that Sophy Kit- 
tredge.felt quite impressed, and for a moment was 
silent and thoughtful, her thought consisting of a 
sort of admiring speculation which, if put into 
words, would have run something in this wise : 

" What a fine thing it is to have mothers and 
fathers who can go to Europe, and what a lucky 
girl Louise Peyton is ! " 

" I suppose they '11 bring you all sorts of pretty 
things," Sophy found voice to say presently. 

"Oh, I suppose so; people always do when 
they come home from Europe ; but it is not of such 
things I 'm thinking," said Louise. " I have n't 
seen my mother and father for seven years." 

Again Sophy felt impressed — not with the seven 
years, but with Louise's superiority. She felt 
condemned, too; for she, Sophy Kittredge, could 
n't have been so above and beyond thinking of 
pretty things, if her mother were coming home 
from Europe; and Sophy loved her mother, she 
was sure. But then she thought of the seven 
years. Seven years -was a long time. 

" You were a little girl when they went away, 
were n't you ! " Sophy said next. 

"Yes, only seven," and then Louise went on 
and told what Sophy had heard many times before, 
but what she never tired of hearing, — the story of 
how Louise came to live in Newtown with her 
Aunt Frances Moore. It was like a story out of 
a book, for Louise told first of her French nurse — 
a tall, white-capped girl from Normandy — who had 
taken care of her in Paris, just after she was born, 
and had come with the family to America, seven 
years before. Next Louise told how Nannette had 
been sent with her to Aunt Frances's soon after, 
when her father and mother returned to Paris, 
whither Mr. Peyton's large and thriving business 
called him back suddenly ; and then continued : 

" I should have gone with them and been edu- 
cated in Paris, if I had been well enough ; but I 




had the whooping-cough just as they were going 
back, and the doctor said I must stay where I was, 
in Newtown, that I should do very well here, but 
it would n't be well to take me across the ocean in 
midwinter. Both Papa and Mamma had expected 
surely to return the next year and take me back 
with them, but Papa broke his leg in a railway 
accident, and that kept them that year ; then one 
of his partners embezzled some of the funds of the 
company and had to be 
prosecuted in the French 
courts, and that took an- 
other year ; and then 
Mamma was ill ; and so 
the time has gone on, until 
seven years have elapsed. " 
As Louise wound up 
her peroration, Sophy's 
face expressed her hum- 
ble admiration for her 
companion. Louise nev- 
er used the common word 
when she could help it, 
and Sophy could never 
think to use any but com- 
mon words, and the sim- 
plest and briefest at that. 
Nothing could exceed her 
admiration for Louise's 
fine facility in this direc- 
tion. " Embezzled the 
funds of the company," 
and "had to be prosecuted 
in the French courts ! " 
How cultivated, how edu- 
cated and grown-up that 
sounded ! And then, 
that " seven years have 
elapsed!" — so absorbed 
was Sophy in her admir- 
ing wonder at Louise's 
powers, that she quite for- 
got to speak again until 
they came to Aunt Fran- 
ces's door; then, subdued 
and overpowered, as she 
always was, by Louise's eloquence and elegance, she 
bade her a soft, almost a shy, good-bye, and went 
dreamily home, thinking to herself what a very 
superior person Louise Peyton was in every way, 
and how lucky a girl was to have her for a friend ! 


THE first glimpse that Louise had of her mother 
was disappointing. She had a rather dim recollec- 
tion of a bright face and airy figure and soft float- 

ing garments that smelled of violets. What she saw, 
as she stood in the Boston and Albany depot, the 
next day, was a little woman not so tall as herself, 
in a close-fitting, wood-colored traveling dress, with 
nothing bright about her but a bright red silk 
knot at her throat. The little woman looked ex- 
tremely young, too, to Louise's eyes, — " Hardly 
older than I," she thought at that first glimpse. 
The next moment a musical voice was saying : 


" And this great girl is my little Louise ! " 
Louise looked up — no, down — into the loveli- 
est great dark eyes she had ever seen, and saw 
that the red silk knot was not the only brightness 
about this little mother. In another moment, as 
she felt herself enfolded in a gentle embrace, she 
smelled again the sweet, faint breath of violets. 
This seemed like the mother she had known seven 
years ago. 

'• But, yet, I thought you were taller and larger, 
Mamma; when vou went away I remember look- 

i88 7 .. 



ing up and thinking you quite, quite tall," Louise 
said suddenly, as her mother turned and took her 
arm to go to the carriage. 

"You dear!" And Mrs. Peyton burst into a 
little peal of laughter, and then turning to her 
husband, the "Papa" whom Louise had just 
greeted rather shyly, — " Just hear that, George ! 
Louise is disappointed in me. She expected a 
great big mamma. Oh, 1 'm so sorry for you, 
dearie ! but you must take Papa for the big one of 
the family ; you can't outgrow him as you have 
outgrown me ! You thought I was ' quite, quite 
tall,' " another merry little laugh, " you dear 
goosie, don't you know it was because you were 
then so little that I seemed tall by comparison ? 
It is like the little boy who grew up to be a man, 
and then went back to his old home in the country. 
When he saw the trees that had once seemed so 
big and high, they looked like little dwarf trees to 
him. So I have become a little dwarf tree to my 
big tall daughter ! " 

The playful, caressing tone and manner and 
words confused and embarrassed Louise. She 
felt as if she were being treated like a little girl 
still ; and she was not used to being treated so. 
Her Aunt Frances usually asked her opinion about 
things, and treated her in a very grown-up way. 
Her cousin Tom, too, who was nineteen years old, 
never treated her as if she were a little girl ; and 
at school — well, her mother would see how things 
were when she had been at Newtown a day or two. 
She would see that her daughter was no longer 
the child of seven in mind anymore than in body. 
But when Mrs. Peyton had been in Newtown a 
week, Louise began to despair of impressing her 
mother with her grown-up dignity. At the end 
of the week it was still, " Come here, my little big 
girl," or " Put down your book, my little giantess, 
and let 's have a run out over the hills." 

" But, Mamma," protested Louise, one day, 
" I 'in looking over my algebra lessons." 

" What, in your vacation ? " asked Mrs. Peyton. 

"Yes, Mamma; I don't want to lose any- 
thing, and have to be put back when school 

" Oh, that 's the way you 've been going on in 
Newtown, — cramming algebra, when you should 
have been cramming fresh air and fun ! But all 
this is going to be changed. I don't believe in 
books in vacation time. I wish you to take more 
exercise and get some roses into your cheeks. So 
fling down the book, dearie, and let 's go out." 

But this was not all the change that Louise 
saw threatening her own way, which she and so 
many of the people about her, from Aunt Frances 
to Sophy Kittredge, had come to think so wise and 
superior a way. 

One morning about ten o'clock, when she was 
dressing to go into town with her father, her 
mother came into her room. As Louise dressed, 
she dropped the things she had taken off, just 
where she happened to stand. When nearly ready, 
she found that the braid that had ripped from her 
jacket had not been sewed on, and she exclaimed 
rather impatiently: 

" Oh, dear, there 's that braid ! Aunt Frances 
promised me she 'd sew it on yesterday." 

Mrs. Peyton looked up with one of her quick 

" Aunt Frances? " she asked. 

" Yes, she told me to leave it out on a chair, 
and I did." 

As Louise spoke, she happened to look toward 
her mother. Once or twice before she had seen 
that curiously distant, rather haughty expression 
on her mother's face. What did it mean — dis- 
pleasure ? While Louise was thinking thus, Mrs. 
Peyton said : 

" How long has Aunt Frances performed the 
services of waiting-maid for you, my dear?" 

Louise blushed, but it was an angry blush. 

" Why, Mamma, somebody must attend to my 
things ; / can't." 

"What things?" 

"Why, mending little bits like that ; sewing on 
buttons and picking up after me." 

" You can't do such things — such a great girl ?" 

" But, Mamma, my time is too — too valuable. 
I have my lessons, and my music and all that." 

" 'Too valuable ! ' " The distant look vanished 
from Mrs. Peyton's face, and in its place came a 
crowd of dimples as she flung her head back and 
burst into a peal of laughter. 

" Oh, Louise, you 're as good as a play ! ' Too 
valuable,' " and she mimicked her daughter's lofty 
little way. "Why, my dear,"she went on, " you 're 
not to learn school lessons merely, you 're to learn 
to be a woman — a lady." 

Angry tears by this time were in Louise's eyes. 
"Well, Mamma, if you can tell me where I can 
get the time to do any more than I do, with school 
from nine until half-past one, and all my music 
practice with my other lessons ! Aunt Frances 
thinks I do quite enough, and too much, now. 
She says a girl that does her duty, as / do, by 
her studies, should have everything else done 
for her." 

" Oh, I see, and so she has done everything 
else for you ?" 

" Yes, ever since Nannette went away." 

" She mends these little bits of things and 
'picks up' after you, as you call it," and Mrs. 
Peyton looked at the odds and ends Louise had 
dropped in her dressing. 




"Yes, always," answered Louise; "tor, you 
see, I have to attend at once to my lessons." 

" Why does n't she send Ann to do this pick- 
ing up ? " 

" Ann? Why, Ann can't be spared, I suppose; 
Aunty keeps only one servant, you know." 

" Yes, I know." Again there was an expression 
on Mrs. Peyton's face that made Louise uneasy, 
that made her hasten to say : 

" Aunty likes to do these things." 

" Does she say so?" 

" I don't know that she ever said so, but she 
docs. She knows I can't do everything — that I 'm 
not strong enough." 

"Neither is Aunty very strong, I believe, and 
she 's not very young. Poor Aunty, she was 
always inclined to make babies of people ! But 
come, my dear ; Papa will be waiting for you. 
Here, put on this little wrap 1 brought you from 
Paris, since your jacket is n't ready." 

With a queer, uncomfortable feeling, Louise 
went down to join her father. Aunty inclined 
to make babies of people ! Did her mother mean 
that Aunty had made a baby of her? Why, 
Aunty treated her far more like a young lady 
than her mother did ; Aunty quite looked up to 
her, indeed, asked her advice about clothes, 
and consulted her in many ways. What could 
her mother mean ? Her father's errand in town 
was to look at a house on Beacon street that 
they were to rent furnished for the winter. 
Mamma had already looked at it, and decided 
in favor of it. Louise thought that her father 
had brought her to look at it to see if she also 
favored it. That would have been quite in the 
way of the things that Aunt Frances did. It was 
a pleasant, cozy house, but some distance from 
the school that had been selected for Louise on 
Marlboro' street. Looking out of the window, 
Louise suddenly thought of this. 

" Oh, Papa ! " she exclaimed. 

"Well, what is it?" 

" It is too far from my school." 

" Eh — what ? too far from what ? " 

"My school — the new school on Marlboro' 
street that Mamma has seen about. It 's a mile, 

Her father looked a little puzzled, and a little 
absent-minded or preoccupied, for a moment. 
Then he said carelessly: 

" Oh, well, that does n't matter." 

Louise flushed up, and moved away with a low- 
ering brow ; but it made no sort of impression 
upon her father. He was looking into closets, 
testing the draught of chimneys, and the con- 
dition of the gas-burners. By and by, he said 
cheerfully, "Well, mv dear, are vou tired of 

waiting?" and with a "Come, we might as well 
go now," turned toward the hall. Louise fol- 
lowed with a sense of humiliation such as she had 
never felt before ; so she had not been brought 
in to give her opinion. Her opinion was not 
considered of any importance. What had she 
been brought for? This question was soon an- 
swered, when her father said briskly : 

" Well, Missy, now I 've attended to that mat- 
ter, we '11 go and have lunch at Young's, and then 
to see the ' Mikado.' " 

"Oh, Papa !" 

Louise forgot everything but her delight in that 
moment. She had been wishing, hoping, longing 
to go to see that quaintest of funny operas; and 
here she was to be taken to see it in an hour, after 
lunching in the most charming dining-room in 

" Oh, how good of you, Papa, to think to give 
me such a surprise ! " 

" It was n't I, dear, who thought of it, it was 

" But why did n't Mamma come, too ? " 
" Well, Mamma thought you 'd enjoy it better 
alone with me — just you and I together on a little 
lark, you see " ; and Papa nodded and smiled as 
if he, too, quite enjoyed it. 

Louise laughed in response, and a bright color 
came into her cheeks ; and into her heart, along 
with the pleasure, came a little feeling of shame 
for her previous anger and suspicions. All the 
time when she had been thinking herself unthought 
of and of no importance, Mamma had been plan- 
ning this. 


The Marlboro' Street school was a very differ- 
ent affair from the Newtown seminary. There 
was not so much cramming; indeed, there was no 
cramming at all. A girl was not allowed to take 
a dozen studies and spend her days acquiring only 
a superficial knowledge of them. Three, or four 
at the most, were all that Louise was permitted 
in one term. This left a broad margin of time for 
other things. 

" Now," Louise thought. " I can take painting 
lessons, and belong to a club." To belong to a 
club was her highest ambition just then. The one 
of which she most desired to become a member 
was called the " Four o'clock Club." Most of the 
members were a little older than herself, and they 
met to read and talk over new books, and some- 
times a member read a composition of her own. 
Aunt Frances would have thought this very fine, 
and would have encouraged Louise to the utmost 
in it. But Mrs. Peyton was not Aunt Frances, 

i88 7 .] 



and she laughed at the " Four o'Clockers," as she 
termed them. "A lot of conceited little pedants, 
choosing any books they please to read and dis- 
cuss," she said to her husband ; " I don't wonder 
American girls get the reputation of being pert, 
if this is one of their fashions." 

So the Four o'clock Club was decidedly neg- 
atived, and when Louise brought forward the paint- 
ing-lessons plan, that also received a dash of cold 

"But, my dear, you seem to want to overwork 
just as you did at Newtown," said her mother. 

" I wish to learn things, like other girls." 

" I wish you to learn things, too; but I don't 
care to have you learn things that are useless, or 
to learn things the wrong way. If you should join 
that reading club where the girls choose their 
own books, I think you ^'ould learn things in a 
very wrong way. You might as well try to study 
music without some sort of direction. And as 
for the painting lessons, there 's time enough for 
that yet, especially as you have no real taste or 
talent for painting." 

Louise looked injured. Her mother saw it, and 
went on still more seriously. 

'■ Louise, I want you to learn to be my daughter; 
to help me ; to be my little companion here at 
home, as well as to be a school-girl." 

Louise looked at her young-faced mother, who 
was no taller than herself. There was an air of 
the gay world about her. As she spoke to Louise, 
she was plaiting and arranging a frill of lace to be 
worn that evening. 

" Oh, I know how it will be ! " Louise said to 
herself. " Mamma is a fashionable lady, and she 
wants me to be something like Fido, — a sort of 
decoration, — and at the same time to make my- 
self useful, as Molly Preston's mother makes her." 
Louise had recovered from the shame she had felt 
a while before. With two pet plans going under, 
both at once, she had no room in her heart except 
for mutiny. 

" Mamma does n't appreciate American ways," 
she said to her aunt about this time. "She 
does n't care for my keeping up with my studies 
as you did, Aunt Frances, and being at the head 
of my classes." 

" Oh, you must n't talk so ! " replied Aunt 
Frances ; but at the same time she sighed as she 
remembered how she had worked and "slaved," as 
she called it, to give Louise every opportunity she 
could to be at the head and to outshine the other 
girls in her classes, and " Here was Louise's own 
mother upsetting it all with her fine French no- 
tions." So the winter began with dissatisfaction 
and disappointment and inward protest, which 
came to the surface in various unpleasant ways. 

Louise had gained her idea of a fashionable, soci- 
ety woman from Mrs. Preston, who went every- 
where, as the saying goes, — to balls and parties 
and theaters without stint, — leaving her daughter 
Mollie to the care of servants, or making her of 
use and ornament when she was with her. Aunt 
Frances had been the first to impress this picture 
upon Louise's mind. Aunt Frances had the old- 
fashioned New England idea that the mother 
should sacrifice herself to her children, should be- 
come, in short, a sort of head nurse and servant 
to them. She had been all this herself to Tom, 
and later to Louise. When she saw how different 
her sister-in-law's methods were to be, she drew 
many deep sighs, and with a sad certainty of ill, in- 
wardly wondered, " How things would go with 
that poor child." "There '11 be a great change 
in her by another year, you '11 see, Tom," she con- 
fided to her son. 

She was right ; there was a great change. It was 
not, however — but I won't spoil my story by antici- 
pating. Yes, a great change. It began by slow 
degrees and by hard things. The giving up the 
club and the painting lessons were two of the 
hard things. So hard that Louise thought and 
acted very rebelliously and bitterly for a time. 

" Mamma has everything she wants, and does 
everything she likes, but I must have nothing I 
want, and give up everything I like," was one of 
her bitter thoughts just at the outset. And what 
was she to do with the leisure time she had left 
from the fewer studies that had been assigned her 
— the leisure she had planned to occupy so wisely ? 
She asked her mother this question. 

" Oh, we shall see, presently; there is no need 
to hurry ; ' Haste makes waste,' " her mother had 
answered, smiling. Then, as she saw a shadow 
of impatience on Louise's face, " My dear, you 
can surely afford to give your mother a little of 
your leisure time after all these years away from 

And Louise, with a new twinge of shame, felt 
all at once a sense of her own ungraciousness. 
Giving up the point for the time, she went out 
with her mother on bright afternoons, sometimes 
to visit the picture-galleries, or to take a brisk 
walk, or to attend a concert or an illustrated lect- 
ure or a nice play. On Saturday afternoons she was 
set the task of learning to mend her clothing, and 
of putting her bureau drawers and closets in order. 
This last was exceedingly distasteful; but the 
afternoon walks and talks and sight-seeing had 
proved very agreeable. Several weeks went on in 
this way, varied by reading, now and then, some 
book that her mother would suggest. In these 
weeks, too, Louise knew that her mother was 
going out constantly into society, and was herself 




entertaining considerably; but she saw little of 
these entertainments, for they were principally din- 
ner parties and elaborate luncheons not suited to 
her age. 

There were simple, informal receptions, how- 
ever, where Louise was not only permitted to be 
present, but where she learned to pour tea and 
hand it to the guests. It was after one of these 
receptions that she said to her mother, " Who was 
that lady with the pretty, light hair and the gold 
bee in her bonnet, Mamma ?" 

"The lady with the 'bee in her bonnet'?" 
Mrs. Peyton laughed ; and then said in explana- 
tion, "' That is an old saying of the ancient Scots. 
When a person had a new notion or fancy, it was 
called a ' bee in his bonnet.' But you want to know 
who that pretty woman was with a golden bee in 
her bonnet. That was Mrs. Eyre. You liked her, 
did you ? I saw her talking with you." 

" Oh, I liked her so much ! And. Mamma, she 
asked me to come to see her, and said that she 
had a daughter who was lame, whom she would 
like me to know. May I go sometime, Mamma?" 

"Yes, I should be delighted to have you make 
friends with Katy Eyre." 

"Do you know her? Is she nice?" asked 
Louise eagerly. 

" I have seen her two or three times, and she 
looks very nice ; but I should be willing to take 
Helen Eyre's daughter on trust, any time." 


It was a very grand-looking hall that Louise 
saw as the door was opened to her when she went 
to see Katy Eyre ; and as she followed the servant 
up the fine broad stairway, she thought to herself, 
" The Eyres must be rich people, and I suppose 
Katy has no end of nice things ; and, of course, 
as she is lame, she has nothing to do but be 
waited upon." 

" Oh, do you mind my sending for you to come 
up here where all the children are ? " suddenly 
asked a sweet voice as Louise came upon the 
second floor. Louise looked and saw a lovely face, 
the very image of Mrs. Eyre's ; and an outstretched 
hand hospitably extended bade her welcome, as 
the owner stood in a doorway just at the head of 
the stairs. 

" Mamma is out, and I have the younger chil- 
dren with me until she comes home," the sweet 
tones went on explaining. 

" Oh, Taty, Taty, don't do away ! " a little 
voice cried out from the room beyond at this 

Katy laughed. " Nobody 's doing away, but 
somebody's coming," answered Katy Eyre ; " and 

here she is, Miss Louise Peyton, a nice some- 
body for you to be very kind and polite to, Miss 

As Katy turned, Louise saw that she walked 
with a crutch, but she seemed to fly over the floor 
with it. 

There were two other children in the room be- 
sides Tottie, — a boy and a girl, one seven and 
the other nine years old. They had evidently 
been interrupted in a game by Katy's momentary 

" How stupid ! " thought Louise, as she saw 
that she was rather expected to join in this game — 
"some silly, childish thing," she was sure. But 
when Katy, with a little flush on her cheeks, 
looked up and said apologetically, "Would you 
think it rude if I just finished this game; it will 
only take a few minutes ? " Louise quite cordially 
offered to join in the game herself. 

Before the " few minutes " were over, she was so 
much interested that she was quite willing to ac- 
cede to the children's proposal for ' ' one more 
game." It was. to be sure, a childish game, — a 
game of picture-cards, each card bearing the face 
of some king or queen in English history. A set 
of smaller cards set forth in print corresponding 
dates, with a droll couplet attached. Katy would 
read the dates and the couplet, which was funnily 
descriptive ; and the children would find great fun 
in selecting the picture-card that corresponded to 
it. Sometimes they would make a mistake, and 
then a forfeit of a card would have to be paid. 

The couplets were not only funny but witty, 
and each made a pointed reference to some his- 
torical fact in the sovereign's reign, so that the 
memory was caught at once. It was. this which 
interested Louise. 

"I never saw this game. Where did you get 
it?" asked Louise with animation. 

" Taty made it," spoke up Tottie. 

Louise looked astonished and incredulous. Katy 
blushed, and the other children laughed. At this 
laugh Totty's face took on an indignant expression, 
and she exclaimed, " Taty did made it ! " 

Tottie's indignation bidding fair to increase still 
more if her word were not taken, Katy was forced 
to explain that the children had asked so many 
questions the previous winter, when she had been 
hunting up some dates in a pictorial history of 
England, that she had thought of this way to fix 
certain facts in their minds. 

"And you made these cards, and these verses, 
and the whole plan ? " inquired Louise. 

" Oh, yes ! The cards are easy enough. I drew 
the faces from the portraits I found of the kings 
and queens, and then painted them in water-colors. 
The rest was easier still, and great fun." 

iS8 7 .] 



Louise began to say something of her admira- 
tion and amazement, when the door opened and 
Mrs. Eyre entered. 

" We 've been dood — we 've been dood ; Taty 's 
tept us all 'mused ! " Tottie burst out at sight of 
her mother. 

"That 's nice; and what have you done for 
Katy?"said Mrs. Eyre, smiling upon them all. 

Nine-year-old Amy held 
up a pair of gloves. 

"Yes, Mamma, Amy 
has sewed up all those hate- 
ful holes for me, and I feel 
as if I had a new pair of 
gloves," said Katy, giving 
Amy a little look of thanks 
as she spoke. 

Mrs. Eyre sat down in 
the low rocker Amy 
brought for her, and began 
talking now to Louise, now 
to Katy, with a word for 
the younger ones in a cer- 
tain delightful way that 
was all her own. Louise 
at the end of her visit 
thought she had never had 
such a charming call. 

And would Katy return 
her visit ? she asked ; and 
would she come "soon, 
very soon ? " 

"Oh, yes, I shall be 
delighted to come ! " an- 
swered Katy ; " but I don't 
believe I can, until after 
Mamma's birthday party. 
I have so much to do.'' 

Louise looked a little 
surprised. She was think- 
ing, " How can a disabled 
thing like Katy have so 
much to do, especially in 
a family like this, where 
there is evidently plenty 
of servants ? " Perhaps 

Mrs. Eyre saw something of this thought in Louise's 
face, for with a bright half-smile at Katy, she said : 

" This is a very busy family, my dear ; and Katy, 
as the head of my flock, is the busiest of all. I 
don't know what would become of us, if it were 
not for Katy. When she burned her ringer last 
winter, and I had to answer all my notes of invita- 
tion, I really did n't know but I should have to 
give up society entirely." 

Louise went home with a bee in her bonnet. A 
very busy family; and Katy, lame Katy, the busiest 

of all ! She wrote her mother's notes, and Louise 
had seen how she looked out for the children. 
What else did she do? But no doubt she had 
plenty of time ; she was n't like other girls who 
had to study to get lessons, and — but Louise 
stopped, as she remembered the game of English 
History. There had been considerable studying 
to accomplish that ! 


One day after the birthday party, Katy was 
brought around to see her new friend. She came, 
so it seemed to Louise, flying in from the door as if 
her crutch were a wing, — an airy, joyous creature, 
bringing with her all sorts of bright busy thoughts 
and plans. 

" How can you get time to do so much ? " ex- 
claimed Louise. " But if you don't go to school, 
of course " 

"Oh, I go to school." 

" Do you ? " rather faintly. 

5 oS 



" Why, yes, I go to Mrs. Lemark's on the next 
street to us. Did you think I did n't go because 
of my lameness ? I 'm not lame from spinal dis- 
ease, or from any disease now. I was hurt when I 
was a little child. I was thrown from a carriage, 
and my left leg crushed and broken. I am per- 
fectly well, but one leg has always been shorter 
and weaker than the other, that 's all." 

Louise was silent for a moment at the simple 
"that 's all." Then she said, " But you seem to 
do things for other people so much." 

'' Well, other people do things for me ; and I 'm 
my mother's eldest daughter, you know. Mamma 
and I are great friends," with a little laugh, "and 
we help each other as friends do." 

" Mamma and I are great friends, and we help 
each other as friends do ! " A queer, uncomfort- 
able feeling assailed Louise at this. She presently 
roused herself, however, and said : 

" I think your mother is lovely." 

" Yes, is n't she? But you should come and see 
us in the country in the summer ; then you would 
know her better. Here in the city she has so much 
to do ; what with her charities, her poor people, 
and all that, — and her social duties." 

" Oh, does your mother like society? " 

" Like society ? I don't know. I never thought 
to ask that. She knows people, just as your mother 
does ; and she goes to see them, and invites them 
to see her. I heard her say once that she did n't 
care for just a quantity of people ; but that to know 
and meet different minds and characters — people 
who lived in or out of the world, not frivolous 
people — was part of one's education. That is n't 
liking society for dress and showing off." 

"Oh, no! " 

" I heard my mother say, after she met you 
at your mother's, that by and by you would have 
an opportunity that very few girls have." 

" I ! What do you mean ? " asked Louise. 

" She said your mother and father had for their 
friends so many interesting people abroad and 
here, that by and by you would find it of the great- 
est advantage to you ; those were just her words. 
I was reading the other day about Sir Richard 
Steele, who lived in Queen Anne's day, and what 
he said of a lady, — Lady Elizabeth Hastings, — 
that to know her or to love her was a liberal edu- 
cation. So, I suppose, to know some people is 
like that — an education. Mamma said, too, that 
your mother was so unspoiled by all the attention 
that she had received abroad! — that she was as 
simple and unaffected as she was when she went 
away, and never, unless somebody asked her about 
them, talked of the distinguished people she knew." 

Louise felt the hot blood rushing to her face, as 
she remembered how she had condemned her 

mother as a frivolous little woman of fashion, be- 
cause she was "in society"; how she had, on 
sundry occasions, tried to show off her own book- 
knowledge to her; and how she had expected her 
to mend her clothes, and to fetch and carry for her 
as Aunt Frances had done. This mother, who 
had enjoyed such opportunities, and had profited 
by them without any thought of showing off! 
Here was this little lame girl, too, a girl of her 
own age, who went to school as she did, yet found 
time to do other things to help herself and other 
people, without neglecting her studies. 

Louise was conceited and greatly spoiled, but 
she was honest ; and when once confronted with 
the truth, she did not attempt to, indeed she could 
not, shut her eyes to it. 

Rome was n't built in a day, and people do not 
correct their little vanities and sins in a day, even 
when their eyes are opened. Louise's eyes were 
wide open now, and never in all her life had she 
been so humiliated, so ashamed of herself. She 
went home with her busy guest in order to prolong 
a visit that seemed all too short, and on her way 
back she thought over and over what she had heard. 

By the time she ascended the steps, Louise had 
her good resolutions all neatly arranged into lit- 
tle plans of amendment of this and that, wherever 
she felt that she had failed. She was in quite a glow 
of self-gratulation as she pulled the bell ; for her 
little plans looked so fair and promising, so easy 
to accomplish ! She had everything all cut and 
dried, she knew just what she was going to do. 
Alas for our little cut-and-dried plans ! Standing 
there tingling with the keen air and her plans, 
Louise was suddenly surprised, as the door opened, 
to see her father coming down the hall with the 
family physician. 

"What is the matter. Papa, — is Mamma ill? " 
she cried out, as she rushed past the servant who 
had admitted her. 

"Hush, hush, my dear! " said the doctor, as 
he put up a warning finger. Her father did not 
so much as look at her, he was so absorbed in 
what the doctor was saying to him. Louise, awed 
and terrified, turned to the servant, " Oh, Morris, 
what is it ? " 

" Your ma has had a bad upset. She was out 
with William and the two horses, and something 
scared the beasts ; and William was no good, for he 
was throwed at the fust corner, and your ma " 

"Oh, Morris, is — is — Mamma ?" 

" No, your ma was n't killed. It is a miracle 
she was n't, though ; but she 's hurt some, and I 
guess you 'd better not go up to her just yet, you 'd 
only be in the way." 

The old serving-man, who had been around the 
world with Mr. Pevton, had his own ideas of the 



use or uselessness of some people, and on occa- 
sions was wont to express himself rather frankly. 
Louise drew in her breath and choked the sob 
that rose in her throat. Just then her father 
turned from the door he was closing upon the 
doctor, and met her horrified gaze. 

" Oh, Papa, Papa, can't I do something ? I — 
1 — " The sobs were getting the upper hand. 

"Hush, hush, you must be quiet, my dear! 
No, no, there is nothing that you can do. I 'm 
afraid you 'd only be in the way. But, yes ; you 
might go with this prescription to the apothecary." 

The girl took the slip of paper from her father, 
and went toward the door with a heavy heart. 
Just as her 'hand was on the knob, Mr. Peyton 
seemed to recall himself from his one absorbing 
anxiety and said, "Don't worry, my dear ; your 
mother is severely injured, and the doctor says she 
is doing well, but that we must have absolute 
quiet for her to do better." 

Louise went out with a miserable feeling of 
being not only of no use, but very much in the 
way. Morris and her father had both said the 
same thing, had both feared she would be a trouble 
instead of a help. Once, not so very long ago, 
Louise would have resented this ; now she began 
to look back to see what she had done and what 
she had left undone, and to contrast herself with 
Katy Eyre. Katy Eyre at such a crisis would 
have been her father's stay and comfort, all the 
household would have turned to her ; but she, 
Louise, who was of the same age as Katy, was 
only fit to be sent out of the house upon an errand 
that any servant could have done. Yet had she 
ever before voluntarily gone forward to make her- 
self of use in the household ? She had unwillingly 
enough obeyed her mother's constant efforts to 
teach her to help herself: how then could she 
expect that the household would look to her to 
help others in any crisis ? Yes, she was only fit to 
run upon errands. Suddenly lifting her head 
with a new thought, she said to herself, "I will 
at least do this as well as I can." 

A weary time followed for the Peyton house- 
hold. It was weeks before Mrs. Peyton saw any 
one besides the doctor, excepting her husband 
and Aunt Frances. The injuries were of a nature 
that rendered recovery slow and tedious. In these 
weeks Louise had gradually accepted and fitted 
herself into the place that seemed to be assigned 
her by the circumstances. She delivered messages, 
and on various occasions went upon sundry little 
errands that needed immediate attention. She 
also got into the way of receiving her mother's 
friends and acquaintances who came to make in- 
quiries about her condition. One day her father 
came down the stairs as she stood in the hall taking 

leave of two of these visitors. As the hall door 
closed upon them, he came forward with a smile 
and said: 

" My dear, I 'm glad you can be useful in this 
way ; and you do it very well, I 'm sure ; you said 
quite the right thing, I observed." 

The color deepened in Louise's cheeks, and her 
eyes shone. She was of some use, some little use, 
though it was only in the little ways of fetching, 
and carrying, and answering the questions of 

Some little use as the daughter of the house ! 
She had always remembered Katy's words about 
being her mother's eldest daughter; and Louise 
was her mother's only daughter. Oh, what would 
she not have given of all her showy school tri- 
umphs, if in these weeks of anxious waiting she 
could have remembered something that she had 
done spontaneously and voluntarily for her mother, 
as an only daughter might have done. But she 
had done nothing, nothing! And now, what 
if — ? But she dared not dwell upon the terrible 
possibility that, after all, these weeks might not 
bring recovery, might not bring that sweet mother 
back to her. With this haunting "what if" con- 
stantly lurking in her mind, Louise went on with 
her daily life. Her school vacation had arrived, 
and this left her with plenty of time to devote to 
the little household errands, the "fetching, and 
carrying, and talking," as she called the duties that 
fell to her. Gradually, too, she had taken upon 
herself to attend to many little beautifying arrange- 
ments about the parlors, to see that her father's 
library-table was in order, his papers in readi- 
ness, and by and by to answer the numerous notes 
of inquiry and sympathy that poured in. Nobody 
paid any attention to this, or made any comment. 
Every one's attention was absorbed elsewhere. 
Sometimes a thought would cross her mind, that 
what she did was after all of but little consequence, 
that her father's clerk who came every day for 
business instructions might have answered all 
notes with the greatest ease, and that any servant 
might have done the rest far better than herself. 
" But Papa, no doubt, thinks it occupies and 
pleases me to do these things now," she would 
conclude with a little sigh, "and so allows me to 
do them. He is quite right, quite right ; I ought 
not to expect to be of any better use." So, day by 
day, Louise went on with her self-imposed tasks, 
glad to be occupied, and getting what comfort she 
could from the thought that by and by, perhaps, 
she might show her mother how ready she was 
to be of real service and value, — day by day, 
until one morning her father came suddenly into 
the room where she was writing, and called out 
in a strange voice : 




" Louise ! Louise ! " 

She sprung to her feet, her face blanched with 
fear. What if — ? Oh, had it come, indeed? Her 

"Louise, Louise, what is it? Did I frighten 
you ? " Her father's arms were around her, and, — 
yes, — he was smiling upon her! She stifled her 
sobs, and with one great effort steadied her voice, 
" Oh, Papa; I thought that Mamma " 

'• Yes, yes, I see I was too hasty; but it is such 
good news, Louise ! Mamma is much, very much 
better, and she wants to see you. I think I can 
trust you now. I have n't been blind, and I 've 
seen how you can control yourself and keep quiet." 

With all her pretty r hair cut off. pale and thin 
and looking like a child — was this indeed the 
beautiful little mother ? But the lips parted in a 
smile, and the weak voice, with the sweet laughing 
ring in it, said, "'My little great girl!" 

Louise knelt down by the easy-chair. She 
could not say much, and there was no need for 
her to say much. Her mother understood ; and 
hand in hand they sat for a while, quite silent. It 
was her mother who spoke first. 

" You have been such a comfort — such a help, 
my dear ! Papa has told me all about it, how you 
have made everything so pleasant and orderly 
downstairs, and answered all the notes. I fretted a 
great deal until I heard this ; but when Papa told 
me, I began to feel easy. Yes, you 've been a 
great comfort, my dear, a real daughter, and have 
done what only a daughter could do. " 

" Oh, Mamma ! " but this was all that Louise 
dared say. 

Not the least of the lessons that she had learned 
was to restrain herself for another's sake. She 
could have cried out in joyful amazement, but her 
mother could bear no excitement ; and after that 

"Oh, Mamma! " she sat quite still, holding her 
mother's thin hand in hers, but thinking, thinking 
all the time the most astonished thoughts. "A 
great comfort — a real daughter — what only a 
daughter could do." And she had estimated her 
work so meanly — hardly more than a servant's 

Two years after this, Louise stood in her gradu- 
ation dress, receiving the congratulations of her 

" Such a fine essay, Louise ! Oh, I knew you 'd 
win the prize," cried Sophy Kittredge, ecstatically. 

Louise smiled a little absently ; Her eyes were 
seeking some one. Ah, here she was, coming" 
toward her ! When she was close beside her, 
Louise bent and whispered : 

" Mamma, did you think it sounded priggish — 
was there any conceit in it ? " 

"Not a bit. I was proud of my little great 

Half-way down the room, two or three school- 
teachers stood discussing matters. One had been 
watching Louise very closely for the last hour. It 
was Miss Richards, her Newtown teacher. Pres- 
ently she said to the others : 

" I am so pleasantly disappointed in Louise 
Peyton ! " 

" Pleasantly disappointed ? Why?" asked the 
Marlboro' street teacher. 

" Why? Because when she was with me. she 
bade fair to be an arrogant, self-sufficient girl, 
always thinking of her own importance. Now she 
seems quite a different girl. She was always bright 
about her studies, but now there is something 
besides brightness, — she is sweet and attractive. 
I wonder what has changed her?" 



Myc © €? # 


1 here once was a Hug-e Hippocamp 
V\/Ko was terribly troubled with cramp , 
Arid the doctors all said 
If would go fo his head , 
IF he didn't move out of the damp . 


By Mary Bradley. 

Down in the meadow the tittle brown 

Build them a nest in the barberry bushes; 

And when it is finished all cozy and neat. 

Three speckled eggs make their pleasure com- 
"Twit — ter — ee twitter!" they chirp to each 

" Building a nest is no end of a bother; 

But oh, when our dear little birdies we see, 

How happy we '11 be ! How happy we '11 be ! " 

Up at the cottage where children are growing. 

The young mother patiently sits at her sewing. 

It 's something to work for small hobbledehoys 

. That will tear their trowsers and make such a 

noise ; 

" And one must admit," says the dear little 

'• That bringing up boys is no end of a bother; 
But oh, when they kiss me, and climb on my 

It 's sweetness for me, it 's sweetness for me ! " 





By Rose Hawthorne Lathrop. 

One morning Belinda Ames woke up in the 
usual way, found the day cheerfully sunny, was 
washed and dressed and curled and poked around 
and around like a ball by her nurse, had her 
breakfast served to her with frequent remarks 
about the extreme dislike of the table-cloth for 
bread and milk, was set upon her four-year-old 
feet and allowed to run off to find her mother, — 
and was waylaid by her uncle Waldo, who ex- 
claimed, ever so loudly and ever so gayly, " So 
here 's the little girl who is going to be painted ! " 

Now, you never knew when Lindie was going 
to be surprisingly wise for her years ; but she 
was so very often. 

" I s'all not be painted ! " said she. " My face 
does not come off when I am scrubbed." 

It was no use, so it always seemed to Lindie, to 
take the trouble to tell older people that black 
was not white ; for they only laughed as if common 
sense in her quite destroyed any that they them- 
selves had possessed. It happened that her uncle 
Waldo had helped to paint up Pinkie Littlenose, 
the chief doll of the dolls in Lindie's nursery, when 
Pinkie had turned pale after having her head held 
in a tub of water ; and of course now he burst into a 
great roar of laughter, when his tiny niece hinted 
in this way that she had more advantages than 
her doll. 

" Why, I mean you 're to be painted just as 
grandfather was," he soon resumed. " Would n't 
you like to look like that, sitting all by yourself in 
a great gilt frame ? " 

" No," cried Lindie, pursing up her mouth. " I 
don't want to look a hundert ! I want Mamma." 

'■' You are looking for Mamma, pet? Here she 
is," called the voice Lindie loved best. 

But it was perfectly true, as Lindie found, that 
she was to be painted, and hung on the wall in a 
big frame. One of her papa's friends was to paint 
her; and she hoped it would n't hurt like thorns 
and curling-sticks. She certainly wondered why 
they wanted a picture of her. She would always 
be "around," and always look just the same, she 
thought. She decided that grown people had too 
many ideas. There was always something which 
they would say " must he done," from being silent 
to repeating " We are Seven." 

"Now, Lindie, sit down in that chair over there, 
in any way you like," said her papa's friend, when 
she went with her Mamma to his studio that after- 
noon. " In any way you like, my dear." 

Lindie climbed into the big chair and curled 
herself up like a kitten, with one hand touching 
her toes, and Pinkie in the other erect as a mast. 

" My darling ! " cried her mamma, " I never 
saw you in such a position before ! " 

" I am happy, this way," Lindie replied. "I 've 
always enjoyed it. I only wish I had claws and a 

" My love, get right down, and try again," her 
mother commanded. 

This time Lindie became the mast, and held 
Pinkie by the heel, both of them boiling with 

"Why did you begin by asking her to have 
her own way?" Lindie's mamma moaned to the 
artist friend, who now held a palette big enough 
for a doll's dining-table, and was putting dishes 
of paint on it, of which Lindie longed to have a 

" I shall have to arrange you, dear," said the 
artist, coming toward her. " I think I can make 
you more comfortable than you are now, at any 

"Are you going to take me apart," asked she, 
very mildly, but ready to become terrible at the 
right moment. 

" Oh, dear, no, you little goose ; you 're made 
all in one piece, like paper people." 

" I never saw a paper goose," muttered Lindie, 
allowing her arms and legs to be placed at different 
angles, but removing them to other attitudes as 
soon as her papa's friend had let go of them. 

" I meant to say, you are a windmill," retorted 
the artist, somewhat distractedly. 

" Now, dearie, this won't do," said her mamma, 
coming to the scene of action, and patting Lindie 
on the cheek " If I will read you the story of 
'The Blue-eyed Rabbit,' will you forget about 
your legs and arms ? " 

•' Oh, yes ! " cried Lindie, enraptured, and at 
once making Pinkie ready to listen. 

" What a charming pose ! " remarked the artist, 
setting to work. " Please to stay so, dear." 

" There was once a little rabbit," began Lindie's 
mamma, "who had blue eyes instead of pink 
ones. And this was how it happened. The little 
rabbit began with pink eyes, as a rabbit is expected 
to do ; but one day it wished for pretty blue eyes, no 
one could have told why. Why, indeed, should it 
want blue eyes ? It could make no difference what 
color they were, so long as the cunning little rabbit 

i88 7 .] 




could see the sunlight in the kitchen-garden, and 
know when to nod good-morning to the rest of 
the rabbits. But on a certain day, not long after 
the rabbit had wished for blue eyes, it began to 
race up and down the path, as if it intended to 
have everybody else chase it at the same mad 
pace. The quiet rabbits, who sat upon a patch of 
soft grass hard by under some shady trees, looked 
at our little rabbit in astonishment, although they 
did not for a moment think of bestirring them- 
selves. Rabbits can sit still for a wonderfully 
VOL. XIV.— 35. 

long time, as much as to say that one place is as 
good as another. Up and down the paths flew 
the little rabbit, or tumbled heels-over-head in its 
hurry, until it looked as if it had half a dozen ears 
instead of two, and its little button of a tail was 
always bobbing up in the air. The quiet rabbits 
on the grass became so dizzy with watching the 
performance, that they looked extremely fright- 
ened, and stopped munching the bits of lettuce 
with which they were amusing themselves. At 
last, the little rogue ran directly toward the oldest 




rabbit in the group, hit it on the nose with its own, 
and thereupon fell fainting on the ground. 

" ' Dear me,' said the old rabbit, as soon as he 
could speak, ' I wish this dreadful little rabbit had 
been born a few years from now ! ' 

" ' You are not like the rest of us in your behav- 
ior,' said another one, coming up to fan the little 
rabbit with a twig of apple blossoms. ' We are 
expected to be very quiet, unless there is need of 
scampering. Did you need to scamper when there 
was n't a dog or turkey anywhere about?' 

" At these severe remarks our little rabbit 
opened its eyes to defend itself; and then every- 
body noticed that its eyes were blue ! They all 
drew back in alarm. By this time the little rabbit 
had become sufficiently refreshed to get up again ; 
and it at once stood on its hind legs and danced 
and capered as if it were delighted to show its 
steps. There was evidently no real repose for that 
rabbit, until it should drop dead with fatigue. 
But now all the other rabbits knew the cause of its 
peculiar behavior, and cried out that it was the 
blue eyes which had caused the mischief. 

" ' You should have been content to look just 
like the rest of the rabbits,' they added. ' Who 
knows but that it is our pink eyes which make us 
so well mannered, and able to remain on one spot 
for half an hour at a time ? Most little girls have 
blue eyes, and you have seen how frisky they are. 
Why don't you wish for yellow curls and a straw 
hat?' they went on, still more sarcastically. 

''This idea of wearing curls and a hat struck 
the little rabbit as so funny that it picked up a bit 
of lettuce which happened to be near, and sat down 
to think the subject over. Every time it fully 
realized the picture it would make in this queer, 
unrabbit-like guise, it chewed more rapidly at the 
lettuce-leaf, and its eyes sparkled more merrily 
than before. And, wonderful to relate, by the 
time its quiet little laugh was over, and the lettuce- 
leaf was nibbled quite out of sight, the little rab- 
bit's eyes had again become pink, and it was re- 
stored to its former comfort and happiness." 

"Oh, Mamma, how s'eepy you have made 
me ! " exclaimed Lindie, who had not changed 
her pose an inch since the story was begun. "All 
those still rabbits, and then the jumpy rabbit who 
got so tired — oh ! " Lindie yawned and stretched, 
and then leaned her head on the arm of her chair, 
and prepared to go to sleep without more prelude. 

" Gracious ! This will never do ! " cried Papa's 
friend, who was now deeply interested in the 
sketch of Lindie which he had made. " Can not 
we give her a little tea, just for once ? " 

" Tea ! " replied Mamma, in horror, as if she 
would expect Lindie to grow into an old woman 
at once, if she even tasted of a cup of tea. 
"What are you thinking of, my dear friend? 
But it is usually the way ; a child of her age is all 
action, or all asleep, or else all ears. Perhaps I 
can think of a story which will rouse her." 

As Mrs. Ames covered her eyes with her hand 
in order to reflect, and the artist at the easel 
dashed in a background to his picture quite furi- 
ously, — so that one would have imagined the sight 
of the bare canvas made his head ache, and he 
was covering it up on that account, — Lindie 
opened one eye and watched the big people sit- 
ting before her. By the time Mrs. Ames looked 
up, ready with a story, and the artist gave a sigh 
of relief after his exertions, Lindie was arranging 
her doll's apron, with no thought of a nap. 

" Why, child, I supposed you were sound 
asleep ! " cried her mamma. 

"Oh, not now," responded Lindie. "That 
was a week ago ! " And she placed Pinkie on her 
own head, and mixed the doll's legs up with her 
sparkling eyes and pink nose, so that the artist 
threw himself back in his chair and exclaimed : 

" Lindie ! if I had not been brought up to be 
polite, I don't know what I should say ! " 

" I will sing to you about the brown butterfly," 
said her mamma, " if you will sit as you did before, 
for ten minutes." 

" Well, wait ten minutes first," answered Lindie, 
riding, as she sat in her chair, an imaginary horse, 
whose gait was none of the softest. 

" If you will keep your face in that position, you 
can jog up and down as much as you like," the 
artist consented, kindly. 

" What is a posisson ? " inquired Lindie, stand- 
ing up in her seat, turning her back, and dangling 
Pinkie over the abyss behind the chair. 

Papa's friend started to his feet and rammed 
his paint-brushes through a hole in his palette, 
and laid it on his chair, and then pretended to 
tear his hair out by the handful. 

The door opened energetically, and in walked 
Lindie's uncle, as merry as a bird. 

"Ho, little pet! Open war? What a lovely 
likeness ! Could n't be more like her, Jarvis, if 
you 'd pasted her on ! Great success, Louise ! 
All but done, is n't it ? Family heirloom, already ! 
I can see it descending through future centuries ! 
Jarvis, you're immensely gifted, my boy! Lindie, 
are n't you a pretty little witch, after all ? " 

" Mamma," called Lindie angrily, turning 
around to full view ; " what is a which ? " 

i88 7 .] 




By Lilian Dynevor Rice. 

Sway to and fro in the twilight gray, 
This is the ferry for Shadowtown ; 

It always sails at the end of day, 

Just as the darkness is closing down. 

Rest, little head, on my shoulder, so; 

A sleepy kiss is the only fare ; 
Drifting away from the world we go, 

Baby and I in the rocking-chair. 

See, where the fire-logs glow and spark, 
Glitter the lights of the Shadow-land ; 

The winter rain on the window — hark ! 
Are ripples lapping upon its strand. 

There, where the mirror is glancing dim, 
A lake lies shimmering, cool and still ; 

Blossoms are waving above its brim — 
Those over there on the window-sill. 

Rock slow, more slow, in the dusky light ; 

Silently lower the anchor down. 
Dear little passenger say, " Good-night," 

We 've reached the harbor of Shadowtown. 





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ULSTER, broke his fiddlinHBclB 
don't know what to do? 



By George I. Putnam. 


One day as Fred Arden was looking over the 
columns of a local paper, his attention was at- 
tracted by this notice : 

" A competitive examination for the vacant cadetship at the United 
States Military Academy, from the Third Congressional District, 
will be held at West Harville, Me., at 3 p. M., Nov. 22. For further 
information, address C. H. Willson, Oxford, Maine." 

That was all ; but to Fred it showed a golden 
opportunity. He had long desired an appointment 
to the Military Academy. Now he saw a chance 
for the fulfillment of his dreams, and he at once 
determined to take the examination. " I '11 do it," 
he said ; and he forthwith devoted all his energies 
to the task before him. 

The notice did not state what branches of study 
the examination would include, and Fred lost no 
time in writing for "further information" to the 
Hon. C. H. Willson, the congressman from the 
Third District. In reply he received a printed 
circular, showing the nature of the entrance ex- 
amination at West Point, and also a written com- 
munication to the effect that the competitive 
examination would include only the branches 
of study named in the printed circular — read- 
ing, spelling, arithmetic, United States history, 
geography, and English grammar. 

Two weeks now remained before the examination, 
and Fred devoted those precious days to a thorough 
overhauling of text-books and brushing up his 
slightly rusty knowledge of those subjects. 

The eventful day arrived all too soon, and Fred 
boarded the first train for West Harville. 

He found a vacant seat next to a tall, sloping- 
shouldered youth, whom he soon discovered was 
bound on the same errand. Mutual introductions 
followed, and Fred learned that his rival's name 
was Ben Thompson. The two, with no thought 
of jealousy, compared notes on the subject near- 
est to both of them with perfect freedom. When 
they reached West Harville each regarded the 
other as a jolly good fellow; and Ben's "Well, old 
fellow, if I don't get it, I hope you will," was 
heartily echoed by Fred. 

In the hall where the examination was to be 
held, they found half a dozen other contestants 
nervously awaiting the ordeal; and promptly at 
three o'clock the examining committee, consisting 
of a college professor, a well-known doctor, and a 
lawyer of repute, put in an appearance, and soon 

after Congressman Willson also came in. Then 
the examination began. 

First in order was the physical examination, 
which all succeeded in passing. Then they were 
taken to a larger room and given seats at a long 
table; each provided himself with pencil and paper, 
and prepared for the real struggle. 

After a few hours' hard work, during which the 
strains of a wheezy hand-organ in the street gave 
an added touch of torture, the examination was 
concluded, and the boys filed out of the room 
and down the stairs with many conjectures as to 
failure or success. 

After the lapse of a few days Fred was made 
glad by the receipt of the following letter from 
Congressman Willson : 

" Oxford, Me., Nov. 26, 1880. 

"Mr. Fred Arden. Dear Sir : The board of examiners recom- 
mended you for appointment to West Point, and I shall send your 
nomination to the Secretary of War next week. Please let me know 
the number of years you have resided in this Congressional District. 
" Very respectfully, C. H. Willson." 

A little later Fred received a letter from Ben 
Thompson congratulating him upon his good for- 
tune, and pleasantly predicting continued success. 

After about two weeks came official papers from 
Washington, notifying Fred that the President had 
appointed him a "conditional cadet" at the Mili- 
tary Academy, and that, if he still desired the 
appointment, he was to report at West Point, 
N. Y., on the twelfth day of June following, for 
the entrance examinations. Fred smiled as he 
read the phrase, "If you still desire the appoint- 
ment." But later, in his first cadet encampment, 
he saw its force and application. 

Although Fred had passed one examination, he 
was not yet a cadet ; he had only acquired the 
nomination to a cadetship, and had still other 
examinations, and severer ones, to pass, before he 
could don the cadet gray. All his success at 
previous examinations would have no effect or 
bearing on those to come. Fred realized this fully 
and occupied himself from this time on in making 
preparations for leaving home, and in studying 
for the coming ''preliminary" examinations at 
West Point. 

At last the day of departure arrived, and with a 
heart like lead, Fred was rapidly borne away from 
a throng of well-wishers, from his home and all 
the scenes of his boyhood. 

In due time he reached Garrison's, the small 
station opposite West Point. 




He crossed the Hudson in the comical old ferry- 
boat Highlander, and took a seat in one of the 
crowded 'busses for the hotel, where all alighted 
and ascended the steps. Just as Fred reached the 
porch, his attention was attracted by a tall, slen- 
der, ramrod-like young man who passed, attired 
in immaculate white trousers and a tight-fitting 
gray coat, the forty- four brass buttons on which 
glistened and glittered, and reflected the light 
until each bit of metal might have been taken for 
a small incandescent lamp. It was Fred's first 
sight of a cadet in uniform, and he followed the 
retreating figure with all his eyes. 

" Well, is that a cadet ? Well " Fred drew 

a long breath and went inside and registered. 

That same evening the exhibition drill at the 
mortar battery took place, and, attracted by the 
roar of the mortars, Fred went out to witness the 
display ; and there he fell in with three other 
young fellows, also candidates for admission to the 
academy. These boys, who were named Craw, 
Delange, and Nolan, all hailed from different 
States, from Mississippi, Illinois, and New York 
respectively ; they welcomed Fred as a " Down 
East Yankee," and the quartette thus formed was 
a merry party. For two days they busied them- 
selves strolling about the pleasant paths, reading 
the dates of Mexican battles cut in the ledges 
of rock, exploring points of interest, and eagerly 
watching the various brilliant military spectacles. 
At the same time they refreshed their memories 
on examination subjects, until the twelfth of June 
should arrive, when they must report their arrival 
to the Adjutant of the Military Academy, come 
under a severe system of restriction and military 
discipline, and commence a new chapter in the 
book of their experience — the chapter of cadet 


Early in the forenoon of the twelfth, Fred, 
with his three companions, Nolan, Craw, and 
Delange, went down across the broad plain to the 
Headquarters Building to report their presence to 
the Adjutant of the academy. There, grouped 
upon the stone steps of the building, they found a 
number of other candidates. One after another, 
in turn, they walked into the office, and showed 
their credentials to a clerk who recorded each 
arrival in a large book, while another inquired 
of each one the names of his parents or guardians 
and their pecuniary condition, whether "rich, 
poor, or medium," putting down the answers in 
another volume. 

Then each candidate was sent to the hospital 
for a physical examination. Here a trio of grave 
army surgeons tested, weighed, and examined 

thoroughly each arrival, and then furnished him 
with a certificate to the effect that he had passed 
successfully, or had been rejected, as the case 
might be. 

Upon receiving their certificates, Fred and his 
three friends returned to the Headquarters Build- 
ing, where they deposited all their money with the 
treasurer, in accordance with a regulation of the 
academy, which also prohibits the cadets from 
receiving money or supplies of any kind from 
outside sources. 

When a number of successful applicants had re- 
turned from the hospital, they were put in charge 
of an orderly, who conducted them to Cadet 
Barracks. The orderly, well knowing what treat- 
ment was in store for his charges, was very hilarious 
at their expense ; but if a candidate addressed him, 
he suddenly became deeply mysterious. 

Before admission to the academy, the candidate 
often finds that to cadets he is known only as 
a "thing"; after admission he is recognized as a 
" plebe," and occasionally as a "conditional thing." 
But the term "plebe" holds throughout the year, 
as though to be one were a disgrace. During this 
year the cadet lives under a cloud ; no social inter- 
course falls to his lot, and to all upper classmen he 
is known as " Mister" so and so. Consequently, 
though the advent of the candidates is welcome to 
all classes, it is hailed with especial joy by the 
year-old plebes, or fourth class ; for to them it 
means not only advancement to a higher class, 
but also emancipation from the discomforts of plebe 

As Fred's party crossed the area of barracks, — a 
very ordinary-looking collection of youths, I must 
admit, — their arrival was heralded with shouts 
of " Here come the plebes ! Turn out, fellows, 
and see the show ! " and immediately groups of 
cadets appeared at the barrack doors and windows, 
to observe and comment upon the candidates' 
appearance, and to prophesy concerning their 
chances and approaching woes. 

The orderly took the party to the hall of the 
eighth division of barracks, and told them to wait 
there quietly, and to enter the " office " one at a 
time, as their turn came, and report. Then im- 
mediately began a course of the treatment known 
as " hazing." When Fred Arden opened the door 
and walked in, he immediately found himself the 
center of a howling mob of cadets, who "would 
like to know, sir, what you mean by walking into 
this office without knocking, sir? Step out there 
and try it over again ! " 

Fred precipitately backed out, and closing the 
door, knocked. A stentorian voice shouted, "Come 
in ! " and he came. But once again had he 
offended in the matter of etiquette, as he soon 

i88 7 .] 



discovered from the cries of " Take that hat off, 
sir ! " "Where were you brought up, I 'd like to 
know?" "Don't you know better than to keep 
your hat on in the presence of your superior offi- 
cers, sir? " " Get out there in the hall again, sir, 
and leave that hat there, and I-want-to-see-you- 
button-that-coat-up-this-time-too-sir, do you 
understand?" " Step out now and be quick 
about it." 

Fred had not uttered a word in reply to this 
tirade, for he was far too surprised. But he 


" stepped out " and made the alterations sug- 
gested ; while his fellow- martyrs, who were still 
waiting their turn, looked on in unhappy antici- 

Fred's third attempt at entrance was more satis- 
factory, and a cadet-corporal approached him in 
a very business-like manner and accosted him 
with : 

"Well, what are you here for? What do you 
want ? " 

Fred replied that he came in to report. 

" Well, then, why don't you ' report,' and climb 
out again ? What 's your name ? " 

" Fred Arden." 

" What ! " 

" Fred Arden," in a louder tone. 

" Mister Arden, sir," shouted the cadet-cor- 

" Yes, sir," Fred admitted; "that's it." 

" Then suppose you report properly ; I have no 
time to waste. What 's your name ? " 

"Mister Arden." 

" Mister Arden. sir! " roared the now apparently 
exasperated fledgeling. 

"Mister Arden, sir/" repeated Fred with 

"Ah! now, where are you from?" demanded 
his inquisitor. 

"From Maine — sir!" replied Fred, rendered 
wise by experience. 

" There, now, you have made some progress," 
commented the tormentor. "You have learned 
to address old cadets as 'sir.' Never forget this. 
Also, understand that you are now under military 
discipline, and that a soldier's first duty is strict 
obedience to orders. Here, Jake," he continued, 
turning to a cadet near him; "take it upstairs 
and cage it." 

With a gruff "Come along, sir," "Jake" led 
the way up the iron staircase to a room on the 
third floor, and with a gruffer " You stay in there 
until further orders," left Fred to his own devices. 

Fred's first act was to examine his "cage." A 
single window, set with diamond-shaped panes of 
glass, admitted light into the room, which was 
furnished in a style of severe simplicity. From 
one wall, a partition which reached to within three 
feet of the ceiling, and extended about a third of 
the way across the room, divided that portion of 
the apartment into two alcoves. In each alcove 
was a narrow iron bedstead. A small wooden 
table was placed against the wall, under a gas-jet ; 
and an arrangement of wooden shelves occupied 
the corner behind the door. The walls were 
whitewashed, the fire-place painted black, while 
the floor was bare and unpainted. 

The ways of receiving candidates are almost as 
many as the candidates themselves, and all con- 
ceived in a fun-loving spirit. Craw, who was soon 
brought up to Fred's room, told of a reception 
very different from Fred's. 

He was received with profound bows and a 
suave "Good-morning, sir. Will you please favor 
us with your name and address ? " 

Somewhat taken aback, he replied that his name 
was Craw and that he was from Mississippi. 

"Ah, yes, Mr. Craw, I am delighted to meet 
you. I hope you are not fatigued after your long 
journey. Ah, not at all ? So glad to hear it, I 
assure you." 

The cadet nabbed his hands together and smiled 
in imitation of a well-known professor. 

" So you intend to become a cadet, and ultimately 
an army officer ? Yes? I am delighted ; and you 
may rest assured that I shall do all in my power to 




make your stay interesting. I perceive that you 
will be an ornament to the service, sir. Perhaps 
now you would like to be shown to your room. 
So sorry we have no vacant single apartments, 
but at present they arc all occupied. Still, we can 
give you a very pleasant room with but one occu- 
pant, on the third floor back. I think it will suit 
you. Here Jacob, show this gentleman up to 
number twelve." 

And "Jake," with a deferential "This way, if 
you please, sir," escorted him up to Fred's room, 
regretting on the way that the elevator was tem- 
porarily disabled. 

Fred Arden and Craw, being thus placed to- 
gether, became room-mates during the examina- 
tions, and established an intimacy that continued 
throughout the entire four years' course. 

Soon after Craw had been shown to Fred's room, 
as the two boys were seated on one of the bed- 
steads talking of their new experiences, they were 
startled by a shout in the lower hall : 

" Candida-a-tes, turn out promptly ! " 

Rushing headlong downstairs and out-of-doors, 
they found a confused mass of candidates whom 
the cadet officers in charge were endeavoring to 
form in double rank. This difficult task accom- 
plished, the roll was called and the column 
marched to the Commissary Building, where each 
candidate received a mattress, a pillow, a blanket, 
and an arm-chair, and one occupant of each room 
received in addition a narrow-minded washstand, 
a wooden bucket, and a washbowl. As soon as 
each had received all he was entitled to, he 
returned to his room, carrying his newly acquired 
chattels with him, and arranged them in accord- 
ance with precise instructions. 

At one o'clock the candidates were turned out 
for dinner, and were formed in column in rear 
of the cadet battalions and marched to the Mess 
Hall. There were boys from every quarter of 
the Union, and the difference in size, manner, and 
dress, combined with a certain cat-in-a-strange- 
garret air, caused them to present a ludicrous 
appearance, which was heightened by contrast 
with the perfectly "dressed"* lines of well "set- 
up,"! uniformed cadets who marched just in front. 

At the command "Candidates, take seats ! " Fred 
and his companions in affliction sat down at the 
tables set apart for them. Each table seated ten 
at a side, and one at each end. Those at the head 
and foot were called the " carvers," and upon them 
devolved the duty of seeing that the others received 
their share of the food. At each table was also 
one of the cadet officers in charge of candidates, 
and they were vigilant in preserving a high degree 
of decorum among their subjects. 

In the course of three days all the candidates 

* Arranged in straight lines and at proper distances. 

had reported, and the preliminary examinations 
commenced. Five days were required to complete 
them, and then all waited with what patience they 
could command for the result to be made known. 

One day was heard again the familiar cry of 
"Candidates, turn out promptly!" Line was 
quickly formed, and the Adjutant read from a list 
the names of those who had failed, each as his 
name was called stepping a pace to the front. 

Nolan was among the "foundlings." He took 
his failure so much to heart that he did not return 
home, but from New York sailed for Cuba. On 
his arrival there he wrote to Fred, but that was the 
last any of the three friends ever heard of him. 

Of all the candidates — over a hundred — but 
seventy-three succeeded in entering, and among 
these were Craw, Delange, and Fred Arden. 
Thenceforth they were not "candidates," but the 
class of '85. Officially they were " conditional 
cadets," and were so known until the semi-annual 
examination in the following January. Unofficially 
they were called "plebes," and the name clung 
throughout the whole first year, and was applied 
to everything connected with it, — plebe class, plebe 
camp, plebe barracks, plebe year, and plebe course 
of study. 


Having now been admitted to the Military 
Academy, the military instruction of the new 
cadets was immediately commenced. Every day 
they were given the "setting-up" exercises, and 
were put through "squad" drill remorselessly. For 
the purpose of drilling, the class was told off into 
squads of five or six, and each squad committed to 
the care of a third-class corporal or drill-master. 
Fred thought at first that these ambitious "year- 
lings," as the third-class men are called, took a 
deep delight in making the drill unnecessarily 
severe ; for he could not observe at first that all 
was ordered by an authority higher than a cadet- 
corporal. But the peculiar intonation with which 
some of the drill-masters would command, " Fall 
in here, my squad ! " — as though they would add, 
"and you '11 be glad enough when I let you go 
again," — struck terror to his heart. 

Every June, following the graduation of the 
first class, the corps of cadets goes into camp for 
two months. This is a season of rest from study, 
although instruction in military duties goes on 
with increased vigor. During the summer, also, 
the cadets give a series of hops and germans which 
attract many people. The hotels in the neighbor- 
hood are well filled, and West Point wears a. 
holiday aspect. It is on exhibition, and many 
come to see and admire. 

Accordingly, soon after the result of the exami- 

t In proper military style — in fit condition for parade. 



nations was made known, Fred's class left barracks 
and was marched into camp. Its worldly effects 
were rolled up in blankets, and conveyed to the 
camp in wagons ; while the new class, in column 
of fours, marched across the plain to the lively 
music of fife and drum. 

As a military organization, the cadets of the 
academy constitute a battalion, commanded by 
an army officer, who is known as the Commandant 
of Cadets. The battalion is divided into four 
companies, designated as companies "'A," " B," 
" C," and "D." Each company is in charge of 

smaller to " C " and " B." Craw and Fred were 
both assigned to " A " company, and occupied the 
same tent ; and as three new cadets were placed in 
each of the tents assigned to that class, Delange 
too went in with them. They found themselves 
somewhat crowded, for the tents are designed for 
one rather than three, and most of their spare time 
the first day was spent in dividing and arranging 
the limited space at their disposal. 

That night, upon turning in, Delange carefully 
closed all the openings in their canvas house, 
which consequently soon became as hot as a 


an officer of the army, usually a lieutenant, and 
has in addition a full quota of cadet officers. The 
captains and lieutenants are chosen from the first 
class, the sergeants from the second, and the 
corporals from the third. Officers' chevrons are 
considered highly desirable, and there is always 
great rivalry for the honor that attaches to them. 
Plebe class was divided among the cadet com- 
panies in nearly equal portions ; the larger men 
going to "A" and "D" companies, and the 

Dutch oven. It was not long, however, before a 
corporal made them "open up," amid the jeers 
of the yearlings, though greatly to their own 
comfort. After that, on clear nights the tent was 
always left open. 

The summer camp is one round of labor for the 
plebe. If he were transported to another planet, 
there could hardly be a greater change in his life 
than that which he experiences when he leaves 
the comforts of his home and plunges into the 




routine of military drill and discipline of West 
Point. He rises at five in the morning for rev- 
eille,* and in half an hour marches to breakfast, 
the interval being employed in doing the policing! 
of his own tent, and of the tent of the cadet to 
whom he may stand in the relation of " special- 
duty man."} When he walks, he marches with 
depressed toes and outspread palms. He has two 
hours of drill every morning, and another hour 
with parade in the afternoon. After tattoo, which 
is at half-past eight, he may retire ; but no downy 

in the question of his treatment by older cadets. 
So far as Fred's own experience went, his annoy- 
ance was very slight. Ability to sing, play, 
dance, or render one's self entertaining in some 
such way is highly appreciated by cadets ; and a 



couch awaits him. He spreads his blanket on the 
tent floor, and spreads himself on that, with a 
quilt drawn over him for protection against the 
night cold. The only change from this programme 
is on Sundays, or on days when he marches on 
guard. On Sunday there is the Sunday morning 
inspection, and two hours at chapel, making it 
anything but a day of rest ; and when, as a 
sentinel, he marches on guard in the morning, he 
walks post two hours at a stretch in sunshine and 
in rain, with four-hour intervals, during the whole 
twenty-four hours that elapse before the guard is 

This much, in general, falls to the lot of every 
plebe, in the way of duty. Aside from this, comes 

readiness to exercise what few accomplishments 
he may possess usually saves the plebe much ha- 

During his school days Fred had committed to 
memory a few humorous poems, and the occa- 
sional rendering of them in his plebe camp was 
about all the "hazing" to which he was subjected. 

Of course all did not escape so easily. Many 
had guns to clean and water to carry and bedding 
to pile for the upper-class men, and were unpleas- 
antly "roughed" in other ways; but experience 
afterward convinced Fred that the ill-usage which 
a new cadet ordinarily receives is almost always 
exaggerated in the accounts which reach the public 
through the press. 

( To be continued.) 

* Pronounced rev'-a-lee. t The cleansing of a camp or garrison. 

t When a cadet is on guard duty, or otherwise employed so as to be unable to police his own tent, this duty is assigned to another 

cadet who is called his " special-duty man." 

i88 7 .] 



By Hope Howard. 


One needs to go about the world with his eyes 
open for a few years only, to find how ignorant 
he was before his journeyings began, or to learn 
that while he thought himself possessed of ordi- 
nary kindness and tenderness, he may in reality 
have been deficient in both. 

Never was my mind so opened to this fact as 
when, walking one day on Wilsdruffer Strasse, in 
Dresden, I was arrested by a large sign over the 
door of a building that I was passing, the words 
of which, translated into literal English, meant 
" Dolls' Invalid Hospital." I had all my life lived 
in a land where hospitals abounded, had, been a 
director in hospital boards, had worked in them 
and for them during the War of the Rebellion, had 
paid dues to them for many years ; but here was 
an appeal which had never been made to my 
heart before. I had never so much as heard of 
an " Invalid Dolls' Hospital." That great family, 
so tenderly beloved, and which has held so im- 
portant a part in the world's history — what had 
Americans ever done for its afflicted members ? 
To our shame be it said, we have been as cruel 
as the pariahs of India, who place their sick 
fathers, mothers, brothers, sisters and children in 
great sheds, and leave them to be sustained by 
what charity throws them, or to die unaided when 
illness overtakes them. In fact, our method of 
abandoning dolls has been worse, as many a rag- 
bag, ash-barrel, and dust-heap might testify. And 
when I saw that sign, I felt the blush of shame 
mantle my cheek ; and I tried to excuse the neg- 
lect by saying to myself: 

" We are yet so young ! Here is Saxony, which 
has existed for many centuries, while we are only 
one century old ! She has had time to work up 
this reform, which with us is vet of the future." 

Now, Germany is really the Doll Country. We 
hear at home of the Paris doll as the representa- 
tive of its race. It is true that the doll popula- 
tion of France, and especially of Paris, is very 
large; but it is essentially a class race in the latter 
place. As you pass through the streets, you see 
them dressed in the latest mode, and looking at 
you out of their great eyes for approval of their 
style. But in Dresden and other German cities 
you see dolls of every rank. You see them in 
every style of dress and undress. You encounter 
them of every nationality, represented by its pecul- 
iar costume, and not, as in France, all Parisian- 
ized. You see establishments devoted entirely to 
the fashioning of their clothing; you go to an 
adjacent town to visit some manufactory of porce- 
lain, or historical monument, and you find whole- 
sale makers of dolls' bonnets, and you become 


impressed with the importance of the position 
the doll occupies in the economy of the world. 
The appliances for their comfort accumulate as 




time rolls on, and there is nothing which any I walked through Friedrichs Allee. This is a 
nation of refinement possesses which is not fur- broad, unpaved street, which extends a long dis- 
nished to the doll-folk. I saw all the latest im- tance across the busy part of the town. Rows of 


provements, from cooking ranges and laundry 
conveniences up to the luxuries of the drawing- 
room, boudoir, toilet and ball-room, repeated for 
them in Dresden, until I felt myself to be but a 
cipher, in that I was wholly without many of the 
appointments which are considered necessary for 
even a well-to-do doll. 

But these very things — luxury and the excessive 
refinement of life — bring illness and suffering in 
their train, and thus I could understand how 
necessary were the wise provisions I had seen for 
their relief. I was, therefore, the more gratified 
when a day or two after passing the Invalid Dolls' 
Hospital I saw other like institutions of mercy, as 

fine trees line the walks. The houses stand about 
fifty feet from the street, and have in front pleasant 
yards inclosed by open fences. In the spring, 
summer, and autumn it is a charming locality, 
airy and attractive. Here one may walk shielded 
from the rays of the sun; and the situation is as 
healthful as one could wish, and eminently adapted 
to the comfort of the ill. 

On the great gate-post of one of these houses I 
saw a sign bearing this legend, " Dolls' Retreat"; 
and near it another, " Dolls' Infirmary." I deter- 
mined to investigate the workings of all these 
institutions and to make them known to my 
countrymen, or, more particularly, to my little 

i88 7 .] 



countrywomen, who naturally are more interested 
in woes of this special sort. I went first to the 
Invalid Dolls' Hospital, but found to my dismay 
that to none of these dolls' institutions was any 
one admitted, save the directors and the families 
of patients. I told the head surgeon, as I dubbed 
the proprietor, that my desire was to carry back 
to America some account of this noble work ; and 
he very graciously gave me some information 
which I take pleasure in communicating to the 
readers of ST. NICHOLAS. 

He informed me that as a rule doll-folk were 
less subject to internal maladies than to fractures 

a few cases which may be of interest. One was 
a blonde young creature who had lost all her 
hair. The injury occurred in a railway accident, 
when toy railway cars had come into collision. 
She had been projected through a window by the 
shock, and her hair had been wound about the 
car wheel until it was fairly lifted from the crown 
of her head. By an application of a certain cereous 
preparation to the wound, and a kind of engrafting 
process, which, as he described it, seemed a perfect 
triumph of science, the parts had been restored; 
and it was expected that she would be discharged 
cured within the week. 


and ailments which require surgical treatment. Another case in the male ward was that of a 
I shall not repeat all the afflictions of which he young doll gentleman who had been on a hunting 
told me, lest I should distress you ; but he related party where all the horses were rockers ; he had 




been thrown under one of the steeds, which had 
passed over him, breaking the left leg and the 
right arm. These were in splinters at the time 

cident, related to me by the head surgeon. I give 
it in his own words. 

" It is," said he, " a well known fact that there are 


of which I write. I was pleased to hear the sur- 
geon say that he would do as much to hasten the 
recovery of the poorest and most ungrateful of his 
patients as he would to restore this chivalrous 
hunter: thereby showing the purity of his profes- 
sional character. 


different orders of beings among the doll people. 
Such are occasionally seen to appear, especially at 
the Christmas season — winged creatures, who 
alight upon the Christmas-tree, and are messen- 
gers of joy to all present. This very holiday sea- 
son, one of these little beings, which had been 
going about gladdening all hearts for several days 
without a moment of rest, fell asleep from sheer 
weariness while resting upon the tip-top of a tree 
filled with all manner of good things. By careless- 
ness on the part of some 
one, it was jostled over 
and fell to the polished 
floor, breaking off both 
its beautiful golden wings 
by the fall. Now, had it 
been instantly brought 
here, what I am about 
to tell you would never 
have happened. An in- 
experienced person was 
called, he put the wings 
in position, and the pa- 
tient was required to lie 
on its face till adhesion 
took place. Alas ! when 
the parts had knit and 

I was amazed at the supply of artificial legs, 
arms, eyes, noses, and ears which I saw in the 
office of the Hospital. When these have been 
adjusted to the maimed patients, and they have 
reached a state of convalescence, they are sent to 
the Dolls' Retreat, to remain till all scars of the 
surgeon's work are removed by time. But for the 
testimony of the surgeon himself, I could never 
have believed what losses had been sustained by 
those I saw discharged as cured. 

The value of this institution and its efficient corps 
of workers may be illustrated by the following in- 




the bandages were removed, it was found that one 
of the wonderful wings was upside down ! 

The various attendants were deeply grieved 
when I told them of our having absolutely nothing 

i88 7 .] 



in America corresponding to their merciful insti- 
tutions; and the proprietor exclaimed, " What a 
pity ! " when I related the woes I had there wit- 
nessed with no means of alleviation. I begged 
him to issue a circular of his establishment in the 
English language, and I promised that it should 

be given to many young and influential friends in 
England and America. 

He kindly complied, and I now present his state- 
ment to you just as he wrote it, without attempting 
to alter the somewhat German idiom, hoping it 
may prove a real comfort to all doll mothers. 

To the High-well-born Doll Mothers of America. 

We would to your worthy Highnesses the throughout Germany much-famed Invalid Dolls' Hospital make 
known. This much by Royalty and Respectables patronized Institution has since before many years already for 
healing and curing of all injuries, accidents, as well as disorders of Dolls, founded been ; and has the thanks of 
many weeping Doll mothers received, on account of the many cherished Dolls from destruction hereby saved. 

This so-called Dolls' Invalid Hospital has best experience to the cure of all cases from Falls, Drowning, Fires, 
Knives, Mice, etc., and for supply of all parts, as Legs, Arms, Noses, Heads, etc., equal newness as at first. 

Further, we can the fallen-off hair supply; the fresh Complexion put on; to the unspeaking Dolls voices 
give, and the crooked eyes straighten. Ordinations we have for the making of Doll gruel, and many medicinal 
preparations for the Weak and Feeble to strengthen. Also patent Doll Invalid Beds and Wagons for all sizes. 

Doll mothers dare their precious Charges to our care, with sureness of Best Treatment at Reasonable Prices, 
entrust. Professor Gashoffer, Hof Puppeninvalidenantstalts Wundarzt. 

Patronized by the High and Mighty Little Princesses of Saxony. 

Princess Tuchen, of Tinklewasser. 
Princess Lisa, of Steckenpferd. 
Princess Gretchen, of Mantelkoppe. 

Patronesses : 

Princess Lisbette, of Rollbetten. 
Countess Dora Doodelsack. 
Baroness Von Trumphen. 


By Alice Wellington Rollins. 

" OH, Mattie ! " exclaimed Jenny, running to 
the window as she sprang out of bed, " It rains ! " 

" Rains?" echoed Mattie. "Oh, Jenny, it 
can't rain on May Day ! " 

" But it does," said the pitiless little observer at 
the window. 

Both children dressed as quickly as they could, 
with stopping every few minutes to look out at the 
sidewalk and the sky. Before many minutes they 
hurried into the breakfast-room to consult Papa; 
but in their eagerness they had come down long 
before Papa was ready for breakfast. 

" Let 's look in the paper," said Tom, who had 
rushed down from the third story in quite as much 
of a hurry as his sisters. " Here it is; let 's see what 
' Old Prob.' says : ' For New England and Middle 
States, slightly cooler with local rains.' Horrid 
old thing ! Everybody says he 's always wrong." 

"But we 're not New England and Middle States, " 
said Mattie. " We 're the State of New York." 

"Goosie!" said Tom with a superior smile. 
"Don't you know that New York is one of the 
Middle States ? But see here, girls ! here 's some- 
thing more ; out West it 's going to be awfully 
clear to-day." 

" Where 's ' out West ' ? " inquired Mattie. 

"Well," said Tom, with a comical glance at 
Jenny; "you know we live on the east side of 
the Park, and where we 're going for the May 
party is on the west side. I wonder if that is n't 
far enough ' out West ' for it to be clear ! " 

Just at this moment Mr. Wilson came down- 
stairs and there was a general rush. 

" Oh, Papa, did you ever, ever hear of such a 
thing as its raining on May Day ? " 

Well, yes, Papa thought he had. But he did 
not think it need make much difference ; they 
could go to the Park to-morrow. 

"To-morrow!" exclaimed Jenny, reproach- 
fully. "Why, to-morrow will be nothing but a 
day in May: it won't be May Day." 

" And, besides," added Tom, "we can't go to- 
morrow; our permit is for to-day." 

Then Papa remembered that he had really had 
to apply for a permit for the children, because so 
many May parties want to go to the Park, that 
there would be hopeless confusion unless each had 
a separate place allotted it. The Wilson children 
had applied for a permit very early, and had been 
fortunate enough to have one given them for the 




very, very day. Some children had to wait until 
one of the Saturdays at the very end of the month, 
because there were so many parties. 

And how it was raining ! Mamma did her best 
to comfort them; she said she would put on her 


.- -: , :■ 

;/\J[; Srt**^- 


water-proof and take her umbrella, and run around 
to their little cousins' house, and send Susie and 
Robert and Hattie, who were to have been of the 
party, to spend the day in the house with them ; 
and they could have a nice dance in the parlor, 
and there should be some ice-cream. 

Well, it might be all very nice, but of course it 
could n't compare with a party in the Park. It 
was a very doleful little group that stood at the 
window, watching Mamma as she turned the cor- 
ner. Even the baby, who was quite too young to 
go to the Park, and who had n't the faintest idea 
what a May party was, or why they were all so 
miserable, rubbed his little fists into his eyes for 
sympathy, and murmured sorrowfully, " Wain ! 
wain ! " when anybody looked at him. 

"It is n't raining very hard," said Susie and 
Robert and Hattie, when they came in a few 
minutes later. "Papa says perhaps it will clear 

"Anyhow, we'd better get our things on, so as 
to be ready," said Jenny; and for a while they 
were really quite happy while they dressed Mattie, 
who was to be the Queen, in her white dress, and 
put on her little white veil and the wreath of 
paper roses. And then in the midst of it came a 
ring at the door, and a box addressed to " Miss 
Mattie Wilson ! " And inside of it was a perfectly 
lovely wreath of real pink roses that Mamma had 
sent home to make the dance in the parlor a little 
more festive. But their faces fell once more when 
they stole to the window again in all their finery 
and saw the big drops still falling. 

" That 's what the newspaper means by ' falling 
temperature,' I suppose," said Mattie. 

" But there 's luncheon to see to," said practical 
Jenny. " I will go and get the basket ready, and 
perhaps by that time it will be clear." 

True enough, when she came back, Susie, who 
had been watching all the time at the window, 
announced : 

" It is n't raining." 

She did not say it with a great deal of enthusi- 
asm ; for she was conscious that although it did 
not actually rain at the moment, the sidewalk was 
very wet and the sky very gloomy, and the wind 
rather cold. 

But, dear me, if it had only stopped raining, 
that was enough ! Perhaps the sun would be 
shining "out West," where they were going. 
They could put on their water-proofs and rubbers. 
Of course Mattie could n't wear a water-proof; no- 
body ever heard of a queen in a water-proof; but 
they could take an umbrella to hold over Mattie 
in case it should rain again ; and without a 
thought that Mamma could possibly object, now 
that it did not actually rain at the moment, they 
were soon trooping down the steps and walking 
rapidly " out West," where perhaps the sun 
would be shining. 

From my window, overlooking the Park, I saw 
them going through one of the big gates: oh, so 
many Matties and Matties and Susies and Jennies 
and Roberts and Toms, on that rainy day in May ! 
And I wondered what in the world their mammas 
could be thinking of, to let them run in the damp 

- '' M'^ 

i ; : M 


grass and under the dripping trees, with only their 
thin little wreaths of paper roses on their heads, 
and thin little veils of gauzy stuff over their white 
dresses. You see, I did not know about their 
mammas' having gone for the ice-cream that was 
to keep them happy in the house. 

.88 7 .J 



It was not very encouraging, as they went farther 
into the Park, and began to see other parties rather 
disconsolate in the cold, damp air. A small girl 
was blowing her fingers to keep them warm, and 
a boy was vainly trying to throw to the breeze a 
very damp American flag that had been caught in 
the last shower. And very soon — alas ! alas ! the 
big drops began to fall again. 

" Is it a 'local shower,' do you think, Tom?" 
asked Mattie timidly. 

the cake as hurriedly as possible, and then organ- 
ized their dance. Mattie was to stand still and 
hold the umbrella over her crown of roses, while 
the rest of them joined hands and danced about 

"But nobody can see I am the Queen," said 
Mattie, " if I have an umbrella over me." 

This was a dilemma, indeed. Then, fortunately, 
Susie remembered the wreath of paper roses. 

" Mattie can wear the real roses," she suggested ; 



'■liJ !:•■■•; -J ?■*■-. 

\ 1 

/ -■">' 


" We ought to have brought two umbrellas," 
said Tom anxiously, — "one for Mattie and one 
for the lunch-basket." 

They stopped to consult. It would never do to 
let the Queen's flowers be rained on ; but then it 
would also never do to have the cake soaked 

"We might eat the cake," suggested Mattie. 
" And then you would n't have to carry it." 

This was considered a brilliant idea. They ate 

VOL. XIV. — 36. 

"and we can put the paper roses on the outside 
of the umbrella. Then everybody will know 
where the Queen is." 

They had just arranged it successfully, when 
who should come up — anxious, out of breath, 
and almost weeping — but Mamma and Aunt 
Sarah ! They had known just where to find the 
children, for they knew the place for which they 
had the permit ; and in another minute the little 
band was hurrying home, where they were made 




to change all their clothes immediately, and then to 
dance and run and play games to keep themselves 
warm, and to drink hot lemonade to prevent their 
taking cold, until they declared that their rainy 
May Day had actually been the pleasantest of all. 

And strange to say, not one of them did take 
cold. I have often noticed — have n't you? — that 
we are not nearly so likely to take cold when we 
are having a good time, as when we are having 
a "horrid" time. 

In a certain famous story of English country- 
life, entitled " Middlemarch," Mr. Caleb Garth is 
represented as a Warwickshire land-agent and the 
father of Mary Garth, one of the heroines of the 
story. Mr. Garth had an office in the town of 
Middlemarch, but the house in which he and his 
family lived "was a little way outside the town — a 
homely place with an orchard in front of it." It 
was a " rambling, old-fashioned, half-timbered 
building, which before the town had spread had 
been a farm-house, but was now surrounded with 
the private gardens of the townsmen. The Garth 
family, which was rather a large one, . . . were very 
fond of their old house, . . . even to the attic, which 
smelled deliciously of apples and quinces." 

Mrs. Garth " had sometimes taken pupils, in 
a peripatetic fashion, making them follow her 
about in the kitchen with their book or slate. She 
thought it good for them to see that she could 
make an excellent lather while she corrected their 
blunders 'without looking'; — that a woman with 
her sleeves tucked up above her elbows might 
know all about the Subjunctive Mood or the 
Torrid Zone; — that, in short, she might possess 
'education' and other good things ending in 
'tion' and worthy to be pronounced emphatically, 
without being a useless doll. 

" Mrs. Garth, at certain hours, was always in 
the kitchen, and this morning she was carrying on 

By Julia Magruder. 

several occupations at once there, making her pies 
at the well-scoured deal table, on one side of that 
airy room, observing Sally's movements at the 
oven and dough-tub through an open door, and 
giving lessons to her youngest boy and girl, who 
were standing opposite to her at the table, with 
their books and slates before them. A tub and a 
clothes-horse at the other end of the kitchen indi- 
cated an intermittent wash of small things also 
going on. Mrs. Garth, with her sleeves turned 
above her elbows, deftly handling her pastry, 
applying her rolling-pin, and giving ornamental 
pinches while she expounded with grammatical 
fervor what were the right views about the con- 
cord of verbs and pronouns with ' nouns of multi- 
tude, or signifying many,' was a sight agreeably 

" ' Now let us go through that once more,' said 
Mrs. Garth, pinching an apple-puff, which seemed 
to distract Ben, an energetic young male with a 
heavy brow, from due attention to the lesson. 'Not 
without regard to the import of the word as convey- 
ing unity or plurality of idea — tell me again what 
that means, Ben.' 

" 'Oh — it means — you must think — you mean,' 
said Ben rather peevishly. ' I hate grammar ! 
What 's the use of it?' 

" 'To teach you to speak and write correctly, so 
that you can be understood,' said Mrs. Garth, 



with severe precision. ' Should you like to speak as 
old Job does ? ' 

"' Yes,' said Ben stoutly; 'it's funnier. He 
says Yo goo; — that 's just as good as You go.' 

" ' But he says, A ship 's in the garden, instead 
of a sheep' said Letty, with an air of superiority. 
' You might think he meant a ship off the sea.' 

" ' No, you might n't, if you were n't silly,' said 
Ben. ' How could a ship off the sea come there ?' 

" ' These things belong only to pronunciation, 
which is the least part of grammar,' said Mrs. 
Garth. — ' That apple-peel is to be eaten by the 
pigs, Ben ; if you eat it, I must give them your 
piece of pastry. — Job has only to speak about very 
plain things. How do you think you would write 
or speak about anything more difficult, if you 
knew no more of grammar than he does? You 
would use wrong words, and put words in the wrong 
places, and instead of making people understand 
you, they would turn away from you as a tiresome 
person. What would you do then?' 

"'I shouldn't care, I should leave off,' said 
Ben, with a sense that this was an agreeable issue 
where grammar was concerned. 

" 'I see you are getting tired and stupid, Ben,' 
said Mrs. Garth. . . . Having finished her pies she 
moved toward the clothes-horse, and said to the 
lad, ' Come here and tell me the story I told you 
on Wednesday, about Cincinnatus.' 

" 'I know ! he was a farmer,' said Ben. 

"'Now, Ben, he was a Roman — let me tell,' 
said Letty, using her elbow contentiously. 

" ' You silly thing, he was a Roman farmer, and 
he was plowing.' 

" ' Yes, but before that — that did n't come first 
— people wanted him — ' said Letty. 

" ' Well, but you must say what sort of a man 
he was first,' insisted Ben. ' He was a wise man, 
like my father, and that made the people want his 
advice. And he was a brave man, and could fight. 
And so could my father, could n't he, Mother? ' 

" 'Now, Ben, let me tell the story straight on, 
as Mother told it to us,' said Letty, frowning. 
' Please, Mother, tell Ben not to speak.' 

" ' Letty, I am ashamed of you,' said her mother, 
wringing out the caps from the tub. ' When your 
brother began, you ought to have waited to see if 
he could not tell the story. How rude you look, 
pushing and frowning, as if you wanted to conquer 
with your elbows ! Cincinnatus, I am sure, would 
have been sorry to see his daughter behave so. 

" ' Now, Ben.' 

"'Well — oh — well — why, there was a great 
deal of fighting, and they were all blockheads, 
and — I can't tell it just as you told it — but they 
wanted a man to be captain, and king, and every- 
thing ' 

" ' Dictator, now,' said Letty, with injured looks, 
and not without a wish to make her mother repent. 

" ' Very well, dictator ! ' said Ben, contemptu- 
ously. ' But that is n't a good word ; he did n't 
tell them to write on slates.' 

" ' Come, come, Ben ; you are not so ignorant 
as that,' said Mrs. Garth, carefully serious, 'Hark, 
there is a knock at the door ! Run, Letty, and 
open it.' " 

The visitor proved to be Fred Vincy, a young 
man whom both mother and children knew well. 
He had come to see Mr. Garth, and came into 
the kitchen to wait for his return ; Mrs. Garth 
saying, after she had greeted him: 

" 'Do you mind staying with me while I finish 
my matters here ? ' 

" ' But we need n't go on about Cincinnatus, 
need we ? ' said Ben, who had taken Fred's whip 
out of his hand and was trying its efficiency on the 

" ' No ; go out now. But put that whip down. 
How very mean of you to whip poor old Tortoise ! 
Pray, take the whip from him, Fred.' 

" ' Come, old boy, give it me,' said Fred, put- 
ting out his hand. 

" ' Will you let me ride on your horse to-day ? ' 
said Ben, rendering up the whip with an air of not 
being obliged to do it. 

"'Not to-day — another time,' said Fred." 
And the children ran off to play. 

Ben and Letty had a grown sister named Mary, 
to whom they were very much devoted, not only 
because she was very kind to them, but also be- 
cause she " played at forfeits and made fun " and 
was always ready to contribute to their amuse- 

" 'Oh, don't sew, Mary!' said Ben, one morn- 
ing, pulling her arm down, as Mary took up her 
work which she had ' kept on her lap during 
breakfast.' 'Make me a peacock with this bread- 
crumb.' He had been kneading a small mass for 
the purpose. 

" ' No, no, Mischief! ' said Mary, good-humor- 
edly, while she pricked his hand lightly with her 
needle. 'Try and mold it yourself; you have 
seen me do it often enough. I must get this sew- 
ing done. It is for Rosamond Vincy ; she is to be 
married next week, and she can't be married with- 
out this handkerchief,' Mary ended merrily, amused 
with the last notion. 

" ' Why can't she, Mary ? ' said Letty, seri- 
ously interested in this mystery, and pushing her 
head so close to her sister that Mary now turned 
the threatening needle towards Letty's nose. 

" ' Because this is one of a dozen, and without 
it there would only be eleven,' said Mary, with a 




grave air of explanation, so that Letty sank back 
with a sense of knowledge." 

Soon after this, Mary went to stay a while at 
Lowich Parsonage, not far off; and during her 
absence, Christy, her eldest brother, came home 
for a short holiday. Fred Vincy, coming over 
again to see the Garths, "found the entire family 
group, dogs and cats included, under the great 
apple-tree in the orchard. It was a festival with 
Mrs. Garth, for Christy was her peculiar pride and 
joy. . . . He was lying on the ground now, by 
his mother's chair, with his straw hat laid flat over 
his eyes, while Jim, on the other side, was reading 
aloud from that beloved writer who has made a 
chief part in the happiness of many young lives. 
The volume was ' Ivanhoe,' and Jim was in the 
great archery scene at the tournament, but suf- 
fered much interruption from Ben, who had 
fetched his own old bow and arrows, and was 
making himself dreadfully disagreeable, Letty 
thought, by begging all present to observe his 
random shots, which no one wished to do except 
Brownie, the active-minded, but probably shallow 
mongrel, while the grizzled Newfoundland, lying 
in the sun, looked on with the dull-eyed neutral- 
ity of extreme old age. Letty herself, showing as 
to her mouth and pinafore some slight signs that 
she had been assisting at the gathering of the 
cherries, which stood in a coral heap on the tea- 
table, was now seated on the grass, listening open- 
eyed to the reading. 

" But the center of interest was changed for all 
by the arrival of Fred Vincy. When, seating 
himself on the garden-stool, he said he was on his 
way to Lowich Parsonage, Ben, who had thrown 
down his bow and snatched up a reluctant half- 
grown kitten instead, strode across Fred's out- 
stretched legs and said, ' Take me ! ' 

" ' Oh, and me, too ! ' said Letty. 

" 'You can't keep up with Fred and me,' said 

" ' Yes, I can. Mother, please say I 'm to go,' 
urged Letty, whose life was much checkered by 
resistance to her depreciation as a girl. 

" '/ shall stay with Christy,' observed Jim ; as 
much as to sav that he had the advantage of those 

simpletons ; whereupon Letty put her hand to 
her head and looked with jealous indecision from 
one to the other. 

" ' Let us all go and see Mary,' said Christy, 
opening his arms. 

" ' No, my dear child, we must not go in a swarm 
to the Parsonage,'" said Mrs. Garth. " ' Besides, 
your father will come home. We must let Fred 
go alone. He can tell Mary that you are here, 
and she will come back to-morrow.' " 

She turned away to talk with Fred, but before 
his interview was half ended, " there was a rush 
of unintended consequences under the apple-tree 
where the tea-things stood. Ben, bouncing across 
the grass with Brownie at his heels, and seeing 
the kitten dragging the knitting by a lengthening 
line of wool, shouted and clapped his hands ; 
Brownie barked, the kitten, desperate, jumped on 
the tea-table and upset the milk, then jumped down 
again and swept half the cherries with it ; and Ben, 
snatching up the half-knitted sock-top, fitted it 
over the kitten's head as a new source of madness ; 
while Letty, arriving, cried out to her mother 
against this cruelty. It was a history as full of 
sensation as ' This is the house that Jack built.'" 

So, in and out through this long and wonderful 
story these young folk go ; loving each other 
dearly, but engaging in fierce though friendly 
argument over trifles, as brothers and sisters will 
do, all the world over. 

And the last glimpse we have of them is quite at 
the end of the story, where they are found deep in 
an argument over the relative value of boys and 
girls. Then Ben, so says the story, " immediately 
appealed to his mother whether boys were not 
better than girls. Mrs. Garth pronounced that 
both were alike naughty, but that boys were 
undoubtedly stronger, could run faster, and throw 
with more precision to a greater distance. With 
this oracular sentence Ben was well satisfied, not 
minding the naughtiness ; but Letty took it ill, 
her feeling of superiority being stronger than her 

Do not we all know Ben and Letty — only per- 
haps under other names ? 

i88 7 .] 




By General Adam Badeau. 

The first thing for a boy or a girl to remember 
in considering war is — that soldiers must eat. It 
is generally supposed that the most important 
duty of a soldier is to fight; but this is a mistake. 
He must eat before he can fight; and more battles 
have been lost because commanders could not 
feed their armies, than because they could not 
fight the enemy. This fact should be especially 
borne in mind by those who wish to understand 
the March to the Sea. 

In 1864, when Grant took command of the 
armies of the United States, there were two great 
forces of the South to be beaten and destroyed if 
the Union was to be saved. One was the army 
under General Robert E. Lee, between Washing- 
ton and Richmond ; the other that in Northern 
Georgia, before Chattanooga, commanded by 
General Joseph E. Johnston. Grant remained in 
person at the East, and undertook to defeat Lee's 
army there ; while he gave to General William T. 
Sherman the task of subduing Johnston's forces. 
Chattanooga is in the heart of the Cumberland 
Mountains, on the borders of Tennessee and 
Georgia. It stands at the junction of the great 
railroad which runs east and west between the 
Mississippi and the Atlantic, and that other 
equally important one running north and south 
between the Ohio and the Gulf of Mexico. By 
these two railroads the Southern Confederacy, 
during the early part of the war, had sent supplies 
to its armies. But when Grant won Chattanooga 
in 1863, one line was broken ; and the Southerners 
fell back for communication to other railroads 
which met at Atlanta, connecting that place with 
Mobile, Savannah, New Orleans, and Richmond. 

The control of the railroads is the object of every 
great campaign in modern war. Whoever holds 
the railroads can move troops and ammunition 
and food to the important point more quickly 
than the enemy. And everything depends upon 
being stronger than your enemy at the import- 
ant point. One man is nearly as good as another 
man, at least on the average. Ten thousand 
men of one nation are nearly sure to be worth ten 
thousand of another ; and certainly in the great 
American war, where all of the men were of the 
same nation, there was little difference in the 
fighting quality of the opposing forces. One 
side had more dash, the other more endurance ; 
one perhaps went into battle more furiously, the 
other I should say held out more stubbornly ; 

but in the end the men on one side were about 
as good for fighting purposes as those on the 
other. Whoever had most men, therefore, was 
most likely to win. But they must be equipped 
and fed. To have more men than you can feed, 
is worse than not having enough. 

When Grant won Chattanooga, he secured the 
great highway across the continent from Missis- 
sippi to the sea, as well as the gateway into Georgia. 
Then he ordered Sherman to advance southward 
to the next great crossing of railroads, at Atlanta. 
It took Sherman four months to carry out this 
order. He had to move through a mountainous 
region, by narrow defiles, across numerous streams, 
against an army of his own countrymen, as good 
soldiers as ever fought, and led by a general who 
had no superior in skill or courage on either side dur- 
ing the war, who knew how to fight and to fortify, 
to put every obstacle in the way of his antagonist, 
to hold him off as long as possible, and — quite as 
important as anything else — to fall back when he 
could hold out no longer. Johnston opposed 
Sherman in this way. But Sherman had more 
men and equal skill and courage. His military 
genius taught him, as a rule, not to attack the 
enemy in his strong defenses, but to move around 
him, to flank him as it is called, — to threaten his 
rear and his communications, to place the National 
army in such a position that it could interrupt 
Johnston's supplies of food, so that Johnston must 
either drive Sherman off by fighting, or lose his sup- 
plies, or fall back to another position. He could 
not, of course, afford to lose his supplies, for, as I 
have said, armies must first of all be fed ; and he 
had not men enough to attack Sherman with much 
chance of success; so in each case, after awhile 
he had to fall back. But he delayed Sherman as 
long as he could, in the hope of wearing him out, 
or in the hope that some disaster might happen to 
the Union cause elsewhere, that would compel 
Grant to take Sherman away. But Grant held 
his own everywhere else, and Sherman did not 
get tired. So the succession of flank movements 
and retreats and occasional battles went on from 
May until July. 

Then the Confederate President, with great un- 
wisdom, removed the skillful and sagacious John- 
ston, because he fell back so constantly (when 
there was nothing else for him to do), and put 
General Hood, a headstrong sort of soldier, in his 
place. Hood at once attacked Sherman, and two 




or three heavy battles occurred, in which many 
lives were lost and Hood was invariably beaten. 
As he had fewer men than Sherman, he was less 
able to bear the loss, and was comparatively 
weaker at the end of every fight than at the be- 
ginning. Finally, he was driven into Atlanta, 
and then Sherman made another flank move- 
ment, almost surrounding the town, and threat- 
ening to block every railroad leading into it. 
This compelled Hood to abandon the place pre- 
cipitately, in order to save his only communica- 

road which he had wrested from the Confederates. 
Hood, therefore, flung his army around on this 
road at various points between Atlanta and Chat- 
tanooga, that is, between Sherman and his base ; 
and Sherman soon discovered that he was in 
great danger. The enemy was highly elated, and 
declared that the Union army must either starve 
or retreat over the line it had won. Sherman, 
however, did not give up Atlanta ; but he had to 
move a great part of his army back in order to 
drive off Hood and re-open the road. But Hood 


tions. Thereupon Sherman entered Atlanta, and 
the first part of his task was accomplished. 

Soon, however, Hood thought he would try 
Sherman's game. The Union commander was 
now three hundred miles from Nashville, the point 
where his food was stored. Now, it is impossible 
to carry many days' provisions for sixty thousand 
men along with them ; armies must therefore 
have a "base," that is, a point where their food is 
stored ; and they must keep open the road to this 
base. Sherman was now in an enemy's country ; 
he could get nothing from the people except by 
force, and all his supplies came along the one 

could keep up his attacks on the railroad indefi- 
nitely; he had his own country behind him, and the 
supplies of the South to draw from. Sherman, 
therefore, for all his victories, had won little more 
than the ground he stood on. 

Grant's plan had been that Sherman, after 
entering Atlanta, should march on to Mobile, 
holding the line that he had gained. This would 
have cut the Confederacy in two. But Sherman 
found the achievement impossible ; and after 
chasing Hood about in the rear for a month 
or two, and accomplishing nothing but to hold 
his own, he conceived another idea, — one of 

i88 7 .J 



the grandest and boldest that ever occurred to a 
man in war. This was nothing else than to give 
up Atlanta and the railroad to Chattanooga, to 
abandon all supplies from the North, and to dash 
into the enemy's country, depending upon the coun- 
try itself for supplies, and then make a way to 
either the Atlantic or the Gulf of Mexico. He 
proposed to take his sixty thousand men into the in- 
terior of the Confederacy, where he could have no 
communication with any other Union army, no 
help from Grant or the Government, no news from 
them for at least a month ; to risk meeting what- 
ever force the Southerners might collect to obstruct 
him, and to depend upon what he could find to 
feed his army, — men and horses. No such enter- 
prise had ever been attempted in modern war. 

Sherman proposed this scheme to Grant, who saw 
the necessity of some change of plan at the West, 
but at first did not think favorably of Sherman's sug- 
gestion. Grant thought that Hood's army would 
be set free to go North and attack Kentucky and, 
possibly, Ohio. Sherman believed that Hood would 
follow him into the interior, where he thought he 
could take care of the impetuous Southerner. The 
Government, that is, Mr. Lincoln and Mr. Stan- 
ton, — the President and the Secretary of War. — 
were strongly opposed to Sherman's plan ; but they 

The first thing that Sherman did was to destroy 
the railroad in his rear, from Atlanta northward; 
lest what had been of so much importance to him 
should now become of use to the enemy. Then he 
burned everything valuable in Atlanta, — the ma- 
chine-shops, foundries and storehouses which had 
supplied guns and clothing for the Confederacy. 
The population of the town he ha'd previously ex- 
pelled. For war is full of horrors, and peaceable 
citizens, women and children, in an invaded coun- 
try, suffer almost as much as those engaged in 
battle. In the civil war of America, however, there 
were few peaceable male citizens. The war was a 
people's war, and almost every white man at the 
South was engaged either actually as a soldier, or 
in some occupation that contributed to support 
the army. 

Generally speaking, there were no non-combat- 
ants visible except the blacks and the women and 
children. A stray old man or an invalid was some- 
times found, but I have been weeks in a Union 
army marching through the South and never seen 
a man who did not bear arms. There never was 
a war in the world in which the population was 
more apparently unanimous than the Southerners 
were, in our great Civil War. 

Sherman started from Atlanta on the 15 th of 

■■. ■:*'.■■ 


left it to Grant to decide. Grant finally deter- 
mined to collect another army under Thomas in 
Tennessee, which could withstand Hood if he 
should turn northward, and then the General-in- 
Chief consented that Sherman should attempt his 
venturesome campaign. 

November. He took 65 cannon, 2,500 wagons, 
food — rations, the soldiers call it — for twenty 
days, some beef cattle that were driven with the 
army, and 240 rounds of ammunition for every 
man ; there was forage enough to supply the 
horses five days. With this stock in hand, the 





army moved. It was uncertain what enemy the 
Northern soldiers might meet in front, or what 
might follow them ; it was uncertain what supplies 
they would be able to collect, — and if there should 
be much fighting to do, there would be little time 
to collect supplies ; it was uncertain what point 
they might be able to reach — Savannah or Mobile, 
the Atlantic or the Gulf of Mexico. It was uncer- 
tain how long they might be on the way, or when 
they could communicate again with their comrades. 
They were one hundred and fifty miles from any 

Northern force in the rear, and three hun- 
dred from the nearest friend in front. 

On the 16th of November, Sherman him- 
self rode out of Atlanta, his army having 
preceded him. When he reached a hill 
just without the town, he stood on one 
of his old battle-grounds and paused 
to look back at the smoldering ruins he 
had made. The smoke hung over the 
unfortunate city like a pall, but in front 
the men were marching to the tune of 
" John Brown's body lies moldering in the 
grave." They took up the hymn as they 
bore their glistening muskets in the sun, 
and with swinging pace moved lightly for- 
ward, thinking little then of the thousand 
miles that lay between them and Richmond. 
The army was divided into two columns, with 
the cavalry kept distinct, so as to move about 
quickly in every direction, and hide the Union op- 
erations, while detecting what the enemy might 
be doing, — in fact, to serve as a curtain for Sher- 
man's movements, that could be withdrawn when- 
ever he chose. The first march was to be to Mil- 
ledgeville, the capital of Georgia, and one hundred 
miles southeast of Atlanta. This point Sherman 
hoped to reach in seven days. 

The two columns moved by different roads, 

i88 7 .] 



twenty or thirty miles apart, so as to give the appear- 
ance of intending to strike points on each side of 
those they were really aiming at. The troops started 
at the earliest dawn and marched till noon. Then 
there was a halt for the day, always, of course, near 
a stream ; water was brought and the cooking be- 
gan, and the pine-trees were cut, not only for fire, 
but for shelter and beds, for there were no tents 
taken with the army ; everybody went into bivouac. 

The pines grew far apart and without branches 
till near the top, and as the soldiers moved 
through the groves of fragrant evergreen, hewing 
the trunks, collecting the branches, and lighting 
the fires, they made a picture which those who saw 
it never forgot. At night the great fires blazed 
high for miles, and threw a red light over the 
landscape long after the blue-coated soldiers had 
sunk to slumber on their couches of leaves. 

The fences along the road were destroyed 
for fire-wood, and all the rails of the railroads 
were taken up. Huge piles of the iron were laid 

tion of the railroads was one of the principal ob- 
jects of the campaign. All bridges were burned 
as soon as crossed, and the country was left as 
impassable as possible for an enemy. 

The column moved at the rate of ten or fifteen 
miles a day. As early as three o'clock the bugles 
summoned the sleeping soldiers, and long before 
sunrise the army breakfast was over. The animals 
were fed, the wagons packed, the knapsacks 
strapped to the shoulders of the men, and the 
troops again fell into line. The column took the 
main road, with flankers on either hand to guard 
against surprise. 

The orders were for the troops to forage liber- 
ally oft" the country. The region was rich and had 
never before been visited by an enemy. Meal, 
bacon, sweet potatoes, poultry, cows and oxen were 
abundant, as well as horses and mules. Parties 
were sent out afoot before daylight from every 
brigade, on each side of the line of march, to 
ransack every farm and plantation within range. 


across the fires till the metal was softened, and Usually they procured a wagon or perhaps a family 

then the soldiers took it to the neighboring trees, carriage, and loaded it with provisions, — meal, 

and twisted it, red and hissing, around the juicy bacon, turkeys, chickens, ducks, hogs, — what- 

saplings, so that it might not be used to repair the ever could be useful for food or forage, and 

road after the army had passed ; for the destruc- then returned to the roadside and waited till 

* General Sherman's headquarters were four hospital " flies " stretched over poles and backed with brush. 



their commands came up. The spectacle of these 
halting squads was very amusing as the column 
passed. The men were all mounted on horses, 
mules, or even cattle, sometimes with saddles 
but oftener without ; the animals were packed with 
hams, live fowl, bags of grain or flour, and even 
articles of furniture or clothing; for war is often only 
organized robbery. The parties were surrounded 
by crowds of negroes, who everywhere left their 
masters to follow the Union army; men, women, 
and children, all knew they were emancipated. 
They swarmed around the column, clinging to 
the horses, kissing the hands and feet of the offi- 
cers, frantic with joy at the arrival of those whom 
they looked upon as their deliverers. 

As Grant had predicted, Hood at once turned 
northward when Sherman started South, so that no 
enemy followed the army. This, however, was 
not known to Sherman, and every precaution was 
taken against pursuit or surprise. In front the 
Southerners were full of alarm. No one of their 
great armies was within reach, but at various 
points detachments of troops had been stationed, 
and every effort was made to get these together 
to obstruct the Union advance. But nothing 
could be done against a force so large as Sher- 
man's, and except at one point the army met no 
opposition whatever on its way to Milledgeville. 
Once a Southern force was found apparently willing 
to dispute the advance, but it was swept away with 
a fight that was hardly a skirmish. Sherman 
reached Milledgeville, as he had expected, in 
seven days. The Governor and other officers of 
the State had fled, but the inhabitants remained. 
Sherman burned the arsenal and the public build- 
ings that might prove useful to an enemy, and the 
next day the second stage of the march began. 

The same general plan was followed as before, the 
army moving in two columns, each apparently head- 
ing a different way, in order to confuse the enemy, 
who knew not which point to guard. The cavalry 
was now directed to move in advance to a place 
called Millen, where many thousand Union captives 
had been confined, and to attempt a rescue. By this 
time, ten thousand Southern cavalry had been got 
together in Sherman's front, but even these were 
insufficient to meet such a force as he commanded ; 
and the two wings moved on, tearing up the rail- 
roads and feeding on the fatness of the land. They 
swept like a scythe across the State of Georgia, 
making a swath sixty miles broad, and leaving 
desolation and poverty where they had found 
peace and abundance. 

At one point the population themselves set fire 
to stacks of fodder standing in the fields, pre- 
ferring to burn it rather than furnish it to the 
invaders. But Sherman at once made known 

that any attempt to destroy food or fodder on the 
part of the citizens would insure a complete devas- 
tation of the country. Then the destruction by 
the Southerners ceased. It was better to lose 
something than all, better to be stripped bare 
than to be stripped and have their houses burned 
besides ; for the population was absolutely at the 
mercy of the invader; they must submit to what- 
ever he chose to impose. 

The Southern cavalry, however, held back Sher- 
man's horse long enough to remove the Union 
prisoners from Millen, and one object of the cam- 
paign was unaccomplished. The captives still lan- 
guished in other prisons, and the advance of their 
friends only served to disappoint them and thus to 
aggravate their sufferings. 

Meanwhile, the Southern authorities were vainly 
appealing to one another for help ; and when these 
appeals were found to be in vain, they abandoned 
posts, and transferred garrisons, and destroyed 
machinery, while Sherman moved steadily on. 
He had no desire to fight a battle, for his com- 
mand must then have been encumbered with 
wounded men and his march delayed. It was 
all-important to him to reach the sea as a base of 
supplies, for this living off the country could not 
last. Every day he exhausted a great region. 
Sixty thousand men are a population of them- 
selves, and when they arrive at a point unexpect- 
edly, it takes more than a market to feed them. 
What Sherman aimed at was to destroy the rail- 
roads that connected the Southern armies, and to 
annihilate the resources of the region. So, when 
he reached Millen, which lies southeast of Atlanta, 
he swung his army around as if on a pivot, and 
headed due south for Savannah, where Grant had 
promised to have supplies to meet him. 

Grant, indeed, all this while, as General-in-Chief, 
was caring for Sherman in a double way. He was 
sending great store-ships to both Savannah and 
Mobile, with millions of rations and cartridges, 
and thousands of shoes and uniforms, so that 
wherever Sherman's command appeared it should 
find supplies of food and clothes and powder and 
ball. He was collecting an army to meet Hood, 
to prevent him from following Sherman, and he was 
keeping every other Southern force engaged so 
that none should be free to intercept the great 
march. This was a time of great anxiety with 
Grant. I was with him and know how earnestly 
he studied the maps, how he examined prisoners 
and scouts and Southern newspapers, for these 
were the only sources through which he got news 
of the lost army. The people of the North and 
the Government were more anxious still ; espe- 
cially the mothers and wives and children of the 
men who were with Sherman. But Grant was 



calm and confident. He always said that Sherman 
would come out right ; that he was strong enough 
or skillful enough to overcome or evade every dan- 
ger or difficulty. He praised Sherman to every- 
body he met, and infused his own faith in him into 
the nation. 

After leaving Millen, Sherman entered a differ- 

Still no enemy opposed them. A faint rever- 
beration on the left or rear perhaps told that the 
cavalry was skirmishing, and once or twice a Con- 
federate division appeared in front and then fell 
back, as if to show the way to Savannah ; but this 
was all that looked like war. The flankers right and 
left found no enemy lurking in forest or swamp ; and 


ent region. The lofty pine forests had disappeared 
and the country was now sandy and barren ; corn 
and grass were scarce, but the rice fields furnished 
other food as well as forage. The weather of the 
Southern winter was fine, the roads were good, and 
the men marched easily their fifteen miles a day. 

the soldiers said they were only making a great mil- 
itary picnic or promenade. 

Once the column turned out of the highway, 
where torpedoes had been discovered planted in 
the road, to explode when trodden on. Sherman 
immediately ordered a squad of Confederate pris- 




oners to be armed with picks and spades, and 
made to march along the road, and either explode 
their own torpedoes or discover and dig them up. 
They begged hard, but he was inexorable, and 
they stepped gingerly on, and removed ten of the 
concealed torpedoes. 

In the swamp region it was often necessary to 

the rice fields had been flooded, and the only 
approaches to the city were by five narrow cause- 
ways, each commanded by the enemy. The 
place was well fortified; it had a good garrison 
and an able commander, General Hardee, and 
it might hold out for weeks. But it was necessary 
for Sherman to communicate at once with the 


build what the soldiers called "corduroy" roads 
because they resembled the ribs in corduroy cloth. 
The rail fences were pulled apart, the trees cut 
down, the branches stripped off, and the wood 
was laid closely, stick by stick, and side by side, 
till a solid footing was obtained across the marsh, 
or over the quicksands that abound in this treach- 
erous soil. At one or two points, as they neared 
Savannah, the bridges had been burned, and the 
advance was delayed till new ones could be built 
or the pontoons brought up. 

On the loth of December the army came up 
with the defenses of Savannah. The city lies on 
the west bank of the Savannah River, about 
twenty miles from the sea. The Ogeechee River 
is twelve or fifteen miles west of the Savannah, 
and empties into Ossabaw Sound on the Atlantic. 
The country between was one great swamp, for 

Union fleet at Ossabaw Sound. The Ogeechee 
River, as I have said, empties into the sound, and 
Sherman had struck that river, but between him 
and the sound there was a Confederate fort called 
McAllister. This must be carried before Sherman 
could reach the sea. He at once gave orders to 
surround Savannah on the land side, and directed 
General Hazen to take McAllister by storm. The 
work was strong, but its capture was indispensable 
to the safety of the army and the success of the 
campaign. Until the route which it commanded 
was uncovered, Sherman was still cut off from his 
supplies and from every other Union force. 

He went himself to a rice mill, where a signal 
station had been established. A platform had 
been built on the roof of the mill, and from this 
spot he could see Fort McAllister, with the South- 
ern flag flying, between his army and the sea. 

i88 7 .] 



While he was watching for Hazen's assault the sun 
was getting low, and Sherman became very im- 
patient. He is not a patient man at the best, and 
now his eagerness became intense. At this mo- 
ment one of the party perceived a faint cloud of 
smoke in the distance, and an object gliding ap- 
parently over the tops of the high grass down 
by the sea. Little by little it came nearer and 
nearer, and at last the watchers made out a 
steamer with the United States flag flying, — the 
first they had seen, except those they carried 
themselves, since they left Atlanta. The steamer 
was in reality beyond the fort, but by the turns in 
the river it was closer to Sherman than to Hazen. 
They could distinguish a group of officers on deck, 

advance in three lines, above, below, and in rear 
of the fort. The three parties reached the work 
at the same moment. There was a crash, a cloud 
of smoke, an explosion of torpedoes ; then a hand 
to hand fight; and in less than half an hour 
McAllister was carried by storm. 

The night was clear ; there was a moon ; and 
Sherman determined to go to the fleet at once. 
He found a small boat and was pulled down stream. 
About six miles below McAllister he saw a light, 
and was hailed by a vessel at anchor: it was the 
advance ship of the squadron. Sherman went 
aboard. The March to the Sea was over. 

That night Sherman met General Foster, the 
Union officer in command at Port Royal, a station 

ttm & mmr »* 


who signaled that Hazen was about to attack and on the coast a few miles north of Savannah, which 

that the Union fleet was below. had been for three years held by Northern forces. 

The assault went on under Sherman's eyes. Foster told that abundant supplies were waiting; 

He could see Hazen place his troops and then and as Sherman was the superior, he gave Foster 

* During the storming of Fort McAllister, part of General Hazen's command began to forage for chickens while the others 

were completing the capture of the fort. 




orders ; for always in war the superior officer is 
entitled to command any troops or generals of his 
own side that he comes in contact with, whether 
they belong to his army or not. It. was arranged 
that supplies should be brought from Port Royal 
on steamers, of which Foster had an abundance. 
On the 16th of December Sherman summoned 

hundred and fifty heavy guns and plenty of ammu- 
nition ; also about twenty-five thousand bales of 
cotton." This message reached the President on 
Christmas Eve, and was published in the Northern 
newspapers on Christmas Day. Savannah was a 
big present to put into the nation's stocking. 
Meanwhile a great battle had been fought be- 




Hardee to surrender Savannah, but the Confed- 
erate commander refused. There was still one road 
out of the city, on the northern side, that was left 
unclosed ; and Sherman went up to Port Royal to 
order Foster to close that road. While he was 
absent, on the night of the 21st, Hardee evacuated 
the city by the still open road, and when Sherman 
returned, on the 22d of December, he found his 
own troops in possession of Savannah. He tele- 
graphed to the President : "I beg to present you, 
as a Christmas gift, the city of Savannah, with one 

tween Thomas and Hood at Nashville, in which the 
Confederates were utterly routed ; so that at both 
ends of the line there was victory for the Union. 

It was thirty-one days after starting from At- 
lanta before Sherman re-opened communication 
with the North. In that time he had destroyed two 
hundred miles of railroad, and broken up every con- 
nection between the Confederate forces east and 
west of Georgia. He had done more than a hun- 
dred million dollars' worth of damage, consumed 
the corn and fodder, as well as the cattle, hogs, 

l88 7 .] 



sheep, and poultry of a region three hundred miles 
long and sixty broad, carried away ten thousand 
horses and mules, and liberated countless num- 
bers of slaves. Sixty thousand men and thirty-five 
thousand animals had been abundantly fed, and 
when the troops reached the coast they needed no 
provisions but bread. They started with five 
thousand head of cattle and arrived with ten 
thousand. The teams were in splendid condition, 
and not a wagon was lost on the road. The army 
had captured so many horses that Sherman ordered 
them to be shot, because it demoralized the troops 
to ride. 

In all the March Sherman had only once been 
forced to form line of battle. He lost 103 men 
killed, 408 wounded, and 278 missing. He had 
captured 1338 prisoners. 

The army had never once been impeded, nor 
its commander compelled to change his plan. He 
had moved through the innermost part of the 
South, where war had never before penetrated, and 
brought home its horrors to a population up to 

that time as secure as if in New York. He had 
shown the Southerners that no part of their 
territory was safe against invasion ; that they had 
no force left to guard their homes, or hold 
their slaves ; and he carried his army to a point 
from which it could be moved so as to co-operate 
with Grant in the final events of the war. 

The success of the campaign was equal to its 
daring, and although its dangers proved less in 
reality than in anticipation, the skill of the com- 
mander and the courage of the men are none the 
less to be admired. The romantic character of the 
march is unsurpassed. That an army should dis- 
appear from sight for a month, marching unharmed 
through hostile regions, its whereabouts unknown 
to its friends, and emerge at last as if out of a wil- 
derness, with undiminished numbers and increased 
renown, is a circumstance that equals in interest 
any in history ; and so long as American boys and 
girls read the account of the nation's achievements, 
they will find no chapter more fascinating than 
that which tells of Sherman's March to the Sea. 


By Celia Thaxter. 

It was a lovely day in autumn. Little Lotty, 
the curly terrier, was asleep at my feet in the warm 
patch of September sunshine that lay on the floor. 
I had been sitting still a long time, so busy with 
my work that I had thought of nothing else. 
Looking up at last at the crimson hollyhock that 
stood, tall and splendid, outside the window, I 
caught a glimpse of the blue sea beyond, and the 
clear, warm sky, and realized how beautiful the 
afternoon had grown. 

" Come, Lotty, wake up ! " I cried to the little 
dog, " let 's go for a walk." 

Lotty jumped up, wide awake in an instant, and 
barking like mad with delighted expectation, as 
all her kind are wont to do at such a prospect. I 
gathered my sketching paraphernalia together 
and calling the little maid to help me, I set out 
down the grassy slope to the sea's margin, which 
sparkled and flashed, edged with the flood-tide's 
lazy surf, hardly more than a stone's throw from 
the door. Lotty, in an ecstasy, frisked, barking 
wildly, before and behind me, like a small hurri- 
cane of joy. Down the field, through the bars, 

into the cart-path for a few steps — wild rose bushes 
bright with scarlet haws on either side — across the 
coarse sea-grass and rough pebbles at the top of 
the beach, out at last upon the beautiful level stretch 
of gray sand, smooth and hard as a floor, half a 
mile long, and curved like the crescent of the new 
moon. We traversed about one fourth of its dis- 
tance, then I arranged my umbrella and my easel, 
and sat down ready for a good time. Lotty came 
to anchor likewise, and sitting bolt upright on the 
sand, eyed me curiously from under her comical, 
frowsy locks. 

"Well, my dear," I said, "what do you think 
of it?" 

With a shake of the head and a wag of the tail, 
she crept close to my feet and lay down as if she 
meant to make the best of it, at any rate. I pro- 
ceeded to begin my sketch. But the place was 
so enchanting, on every side so beautiful, I found 
it hard to do any more than to look and love every- 
thing I saw, for a long time. The sea was the 
most delicious turquoise blue, and where it ran up 
over the shallows, the color melted into trans- 
parent emerald, the long, slow billows lifted 
themselves lazily and rolled in with soft rush and 
whisper, almost too lazy to roll at all. Where the 
foam sparkled at the edge of the sand, kelp and 




weeds were scattered in broken lines of rich brown, 
dull purple, crimson, and olive green. Far away 
a few sails were dreaming; a group of snowy gulls 
rose and fell on the long swell of the ocean close at 
hand. On the left, tall marsh-grass came down to 
the top of the beach in streaks of yellow, red- 
brown, and ripe green, with patches of crimson 
samphire beginning to glow in the rockier places ; 
all about me were the wild rose bushes with their 
scarlet berries. I turned away from the water and 
looked up to the house I had left ; its red roofs and 
dull yellow-green walls steeped in the sunshine — 
rich and deep in color — the vines and flowers about 
it, and the huge old elm in front of it, the broad 
fields and mellowing woods seemed so peaceful 
and happy that I spoke aloud, "How heavenly 
it is ! " 

Lotty perked up her head and looked at me. 
Laughing at her funny expression, I turned to my 
sketch and began working in earnest. The crickets 
simmered pleasantly, the sweet sad cry of myriad 
goldfinches among the drying sunflower stalks and 
weeds sounded incessantly ; a crow cawed now 
and then, a gull high aloft in the blue uttered a 
harsh cry which the distance softened ; a little 
beach-bird flew piping along the sand. Lotty 
pricked up her ears. 

"No, no, my dear!" I cried. "You are not 
to run after any little bird whatever. Stay here 
and behave yourself like a good dog," for she had 
jumped up and was already starting away to chase 
the feathered creature. With a very aggrieved 
and reproachful expression she returned and sat 
down a few feet from me. But I onfy contin- 
ued to laugh at her, and went on with my paint- 
ing, presently becoming so engrossed in it that I 
forgot she was there. 

Some time passed. Suddenly a small paw was 
thrust into my paint-box, and there was poor 
Lotty standing on her hind feet looking at me, as 
much as to say: 

"Oh, dear, I 'm bored to death. Why don't 
we take a walk? Why have you planted yourself 
here, where you are doing nothing at all ? Why 
don't we go home if we can't go to walk ? Oh 
dear, oh dear ! " 

And she actually began to cry. 

"Well, go home! you little goose," I cried, 
greatly amused. " I don't want you to stay ! " 

She left me, went a little way toward the house, 
then turned back and looked at me, whining and 
coaxing. Suddenly she came running and cud- 
dled down again affectionately, as if she thought, 
"Well, I'm sorry you're such an idiot, but I 
won't desert you, though you do behave in this 
extremely foolish and unreasonable manner." 

So she lay patiently watching me from under her 

tangled shock of hair till I began to put up my 
brushes, and made ready to depart. 

The sun was nearing the western horizon in a 
golden glory as I shouldered my easel and took 
my way toward home, Lotty dancing with delight. 
I could not call the little maid to help me back, so 
I arranged the things as well as I could. I had 
not a regular sketching outfit, and my long easel, 
though light, was rather difficult to carry. But I 
put my head through the V end, resting the two 
legs on my shoulders. I had also to carry a small 
chair, a large umbrella, my sketching-block, a tin 
pail in which I had brought fresh water, and over 
my left arm I hung a leather bag containing paint- 
boxes, brushes, etc. This was quite heavy, and 
the whole load was as much as -one person could 
take, but I had not far to go, so trudged slowly 
along till I turned from the beach into the green 
field that sloped from the house to the sea ; Lotty 
all the while capering and barking, rejoicing that 
I had regained my senses at last. Her noise was 
presently heard by the other dogs, which joined in 
the chorus afar off, and I saw appear at the upper 
edge of the field the two great St. Bernards, Cham- 
pernowne, and Nita, looming large against the sky. 
They stopped, gazing at us from the distance, as 
if taking in the situation ; then in a moment they 
began to rush down toward us with long, loping 
canter, and knowing their affectionate impetuosity 
I said to myself. 

" Now I am lost ! they will come full tilt against 
me and all these traps, and I shall be a total 

Amused, and more than half dreading the onset, 
I stood still and waited, admiring the magnificent, 
tawny, lion-colored creatures as they swept toward 
me, their beautiful eyes beaming with intelligence, 
and all their motions full of grace. 

Suddenly the great dog Champernowne, as 
he reached me, stopped perfectly still without 
touching me, and before I knew what he was going 
to do, stood upright on his hind feet, as tall as 
myself, quietly slipped his under jaw through the 
handles of the bag which swung on my arm, and 
with the grace and courtesy of a grand duke, 
nothing less, gently and firmly drew it off, and 
turning, proceeded decorously up the path that 
led to the house, bearing it with the utmost 

Astonished and delighted, I cried, "Bravo, 
Champ ! Good dog ! fine fellow ! You saw I 
needed help, and you gave it like a gentleman, 
did n't you ? But who would have thought you 
had so much sense ? " Then Nita, hearing all 
these praises lavished on her comrade, wished to 
have her share also ; and joining Champ she too 
seized hold of the bag, and both together trotted 

i88 7 .] 



side by side all the way to the house, where they 
arrived some time before I reached it, and where I 
found them faithfully keeping guard over my prop- 
erty on the threshold. 

"Well, you are certainly the very handsomest, 
best, and dearest dogs in the whole world ! " I 
cried as I opened the door and allowed them to 
crowd into the pleasant room, Lotty and two or 
three of the smaller dogs accompanying them with 
much frisking and barking. But Champ and Nita, 
appreciating to the utmost the importance of the 
occasion and the magnitude of the favor extended 
to them, took their 
seats on the hearth 
before the open fire- 
place with the greatest 
dignity. This was the 
summit of delight to 
them, to be allowed to 
sit in the house before 
the fire and enjoy the 
society of their human 
friends — a favor not too 
often accorded them. 
A handful of driftwood 
had been kindled on 
the hearth to take off 
the chill of the evening 
fast closing in. Pres- 
ently they spread their 
big bulks out on the 
rug before it in bliss- 
ful satisfaction, while I 
patted their heads and 
stroked their long fur, 
and told them how I 
admired them, how 
proud I was of them, 
till their eyes shone 
with delight and they 
fairly laughed for joy ! 


Rattlety-bang ! 
rattlety-bang — down 
the street clattered a 
tin can tied to the tail 
of a poor, friendless, 
and frightened dog ! A 

crowd of boys followed at the runaway's heels, 
with cries and shouts, increasing alike his terror 
and his speed, until, at last, he had distanced his 
pursuers, but not, alas ! that horrible, noisy thing 
that clattered and rattled at his heels. 

Thoroughly tired, and quite as thoroughly ter- 
VOL. XIV. — 37. 

rified, the poor dog looked to right and left as he 
ran, for help or shelter. At length he spied, 
at the corner of a cross-street not far away, a 
large, friendly-looking, Newfoundland dog. With 
piteous cries and an imploring look, the ex- 
hausted dog dragged himself and his noisy appen- 
dage to the Newfoundland, and looked to him for 

Nor was his appeal unheeded, for the New- 
foundland seemed to appreciate the position and 
at once showed himself to be a generous dog. A 
patient gnawing at the string finally released the 


can ; and then, lifting it in air, the Newfoundland 
flung it from him with a triumphant toss of the 
head, while the other dog joyously bounded up 
from his crouching position — thankful to be rid 
of the troublesome burden which his human tor- 
mentors had inflicted upon him. 





(A true story.) 

By Louis Sajat. 

Twinkle had a pleasant home and a kind mis- 
tress, but he was, nevertheless, a very unhappy 
little silver-haired doggie. 

He lived in constant terror of Monday, for that 
was Twinkle's wash-day. Every Monday, he was 
put into a tub and washed and soaped and scoured 
and rubbed, and then wrapped, snarling and shiv- 
ering, in a blanket to dry. 

Twinkle had done everything that a dog could 
do to escape this terror. He had run away, only 
to be brought back again and scrubbed harder 
than ever. He had bitten his mistress, only to be 
cuffed and soused clear under the water ; and once 
when they were getting his bath ready, he fled 
down cellar and crawled into the soot box of the 
furnace. It proved a good hiding-place, and it 
was a long time before they found him ; but it 
was the terrible scrubbing that followed his dis- 
covery that Twinkle always dreamed about there- 
after when his digestion was out of order. 

One day a stray kitten came to the house. She 
was very thin and untidy-looking, not a pretty 
kitten at all ; but Twinkle's mistress took her to 
the kitchen and gave her some milk. The kitten 
drank it greedily, and then curled herself into a 
little round ball under the stove. Twinkle sat and 
watched her while she slept ; he had known from 
the first moment he had seen her just what he 
ought to do ; the thing to be considered was how 
to do it, — for Twinkle meant to wash that small 
cat ! 

All the rest of the day Twinkle tried to be very 
kind and gentle ; when the kitten tried to put up 
her weak little back and spit at him, Twinkle 
would only wag his tail good-naturedly ; and his 
mistress praised him, calling him her own kind 
little doggie. But all the while Twinkle was 
thinking just what he should do to-morrow. 

Early the next morning, he went into the gar- 
den. Kitty was there, curled up in a sunny spot, 
asleep. There was something else in the garden — 
a tub of water, out of which the chickens drank. 
Twinkle seized the poor little cat by the back of 
her neck, ran to the tub, and dashed her up and 
down in the water. Poor Kitty choked and strug- 
gled, but Twinkle soused her up and down until 
he thought she had been washed enough ; then he 
put her down on the walk. Poor, poor pussy ! 
she tried to put her wet little paws, one after the 
other, to her face, to clear away the strangling 
water ; then she crawled away very feebly. Twin- 

kle looked at the wet trail she made on the walk, 
and felt that he had done his duty. Then he ran 
away perfectly happy. 

The next morning, he washed her again, and the 
next after that, too ; while his mistress wondered 
why, with the best of food and care, that kitten 
remained so thin and weak. 

One morning Madge, coming to sweep the steps, 
saw something that made her turn suddenly and 
run back into the house ; and when Twinkle, hav- 
ing bathed his charge, laid her as usual on the 
walk, quite a row of people stood at the top of 
the steps looking at him. He tried to run away, 
but his mistress caught him, and, breaking off a 
switch from the lilac bush, she then and there, in 
spite of his struggling and crying, switched him 

Twinkle was disgusted. He ran away after his 
whipping, and staid out all night. When he re- 
turned, he found that the tub had been taken away 
and that the cat was kept in the house ; so for two 
days she did not get washed. On the third morning, 
however, Twinkle found her. He caught her up in 
an instant. There was no water anywhere in the 
yard, so he was obliged to drag her through a hole 
in the fence, and into the garden next door. There 
he found a pail ; the water was not very clean, to 
be sure ; it had bread-crusts and potato-parings in 
it, but it was the best that Twinkle could find, so 
into it went poor pussy. 

She did not struggle much. To Twinkle's great 
surprise, she did not move when he put her down ; 
she only gasped once or twice and then lay very, 
very still. Twinkle sat down and looked at her. 
Could it be possible that she was dead ? He had 
not wanted her to die ; he only wanted to wash her ; 
but she would not move. And the neighbor, whose 
pail he had used, came out and handed the little 
dead kitty over the fence to Twinkle's mistress. 

They cried about it at home ; Twinkle heard 
them, and he saw great tears in his mistress's eyes, 
and she would not speak to him — would not even 
look at him. It was too much for one little dog to 
understand. Madge washed him on Monday, and 
why should he not wash the kitten ? 

About a week after this, Twinkle's mistress went 
out to make some calls. 

Twinkle went, too ; he liked to run about the 
gardens and pry into things while she visited. At 
the first place where they stopped. Twinkle dashed 
around the house in great haste, and almost ran 
over a big black cat. The cat was asleep by the 
side of a tub of water. As quick as a flash, Twinkle 
had that cat by the back of her neck. Then there 
was one swift flash of steel-like claws, one most 
astonishing yowl, and Twinkle's face was torn and 
bleeding, his eyes scratched severely, and his long 

,88 7 .J 




silvery hair pulled out in patches. And the worst 
of it was that his mistress said — " It served him 


By M. E. Bradley. 

Fond of old Dan, sir ? Indeed I am ! 

I reckon I ought to be — proud of him, too ! 
Brave as a lion, sir, mild as a lamb, 

And the wisest fellow you ever knew ! 
Just wait till I tell you what he did, 

Though it 's not to my credit, as you '11 see; 
For it came from my doing a thing forbid 

That Dandie showed what a dog can be. 

We were in the potato-patch one day, 

Dandie and Hal and I and Fred, 
And to save my life I could n't say 

Just how the mischief got into my head. 
Father had said we were n't to do it, — 

But roast potatoes are very good ! 
And Hal had matches. Before we knew it 

We had a bonfire lit in the wood. 

Fathers know best, on the whole, I guess ; 

At all events, I can safely say 
'T would have kept us out of a jolly mess 

If we had believed he did, that day. 
For, not to spin out too long a story, 

That youngster you see there — Fred 's his 
name — 
Contrived to cover himself with glory 

By getting his petticoats all aflame. 

We never thought of his skirts, you see, 

For he 's just as much of a boy as the rest ; 
And, to tell the truth, between you and me, 

It 's a silly old way for a boy to be dressed. 
Why can't he have trousers right from the first ? 

For, of all the " despisable " things to wear, 
Those niminy-piminy frocks are the worst. 

I know how it is, for I 've been there. 

However, the poor little chap, as I said, 

Was all of a blaze, — and how he did yell ! 
Hal began to pitch things at his head, 

And I stood as if I was under a spell; 
For both of us lost our wits completely, 

And only for dear old Dan, — well, there, — 
If you want to know, I '11 own up to it sweetly — 

I am a-crying, and I don't care ! 

You 'd know how it was yourself, I think, 

If you 'd been in my place, and seen old Dan ; 

He went for that boy, sir, quick as a wink, 
Grabbed his frock in his teeth, and ran 

Straight to the brook with him, bumpety-bump ! 

And there the two took a douse together. 
By the time we followed him, on the jump, 

I tell you what, it was squally weather ! 

Fire was put out, though ? Well, I should smile 

(I reckon I shouted then for joy) ; 
Though, as for Fred, you might -walk a mile 

And not come up with a madder boy. 
Mad as a hornet — and dripping wet ! 

Such a little scarecrow you never saw ! 
But here 's the dog, sir, we shan't forget — 

Shall we, old fellow ? Give us your paw ! 

By E. P. Roe. 

An artist owned a little Scotch terrier that was 
endowed both with brains and with an uncertain 
temper. Usually it was playful and affectionate, 
but, like some people we know, it had bad moods. 
The artist made a great petof Scotchy, as he called 
the dog, and taught it several tricks. He taught it 
to stand between its master's legs and leap over his 
clasped hands and then leap back again ; to sit back 
on its haunches and shake hands; and to spring 
into the artist's lap, put its paws on each cheek and 
kiss him like an affectionate child. 

When the artist went to the country in summer he 
took Scotchy with him, and the clog usually was his 
companion on sketching expeditions. As is gener- 
ally the case with evil tendencies that are not over- 
come, the bad, snappy moods became more frequent, 
and the artist began to debate in his mind whether 
he ought to keep the dog, fearing lest in one of these 
irritable moments it might bite his little boy. One 
day, when out sketching, this question was settled. 
The dog lay beside him as he worked, and pausing 
a moment, he reached out his hand to give it a 
caress. The terrier's response was a snarl and 
a snap. Believing now that a well-deserved lesson 
was needed, the artist cut a switch, and, seizing 
the dog by the collar, gave it a sound whipping. 
The moment his grasp was relaxed, the enraged 
little beast turned upon him, and taking hold of 
the leg of his trousers, shook with all its might. 

"Go home, you bad dog!" cried the master, 
giving it a cut with his whip. Yielding, Scotchy 
started off in the most leisurely, independent man- 
ner imaginable, venting his spleen by ill-tempered 
barking right and left. In manner the dog virtu- 
ally said, " I '11 go, but I '11 take my own time, and 
you can't help it." A surly man could not have 
shown more temper than Scotchy, going slowly 
homeward, barking and growling all the way. 

54 8 



An apparent reconciliation took place when 
the artist returned, but he had decided that he 
would not take the dog back to the city. Soon 
after, he gave it to a friend in the village where he 
was sojourning. This slight was never forgiven, 
and it would seem that Scotchy brooded over it 
continually. A year later the artist went to call 
on the friend who had received the dog. The 
ladies of the household were on the piazza, and so 
was the terrier. As soon as it saw its old master 
coming up the walk, it seemed almost wild with 
rage. Every hair on its back stood upright, and 
its eyes became green with anger. Snarling and 
growling, it showed its teeth and looked as if 
determined to use them. 

" Scotchy, come here ! " said the artist sternly. 

As if compelled against its will by the old voice 
of authority, the dog slowly obeyed, growling at 
every step. 

" Position ! " said the artist, in his severest tone, 
and Scotchy growled his way between his former 
master's legs. " Now, jump ! " Fairly trembling 
and yelping with rage, the dog sprung over the 
artist's clasped hands as it had been taught long 
before. "Jump back!" Snarling its bitter pro- 
test, back it sprung. "Sit up!" Scotchy rose 
on his haunches, meanwhile gnashing his teeth. 
" Shake hands ! " Out came the paw and a most 
portentous growl at the same instant. 

"Oh!" cried the ladies, "do drive the dog 
away; he will surely bite you. Here, Scotchy, 
come here, come away ! " 

" Sit still! " said the artist. 

" Ur-r-r-r," responded Scotchy, yet seeming un- 
able to disobey. 

The artist now sat down and commanded, "Come 
and kiss me ! " 

" No, no ! " cried the ladies ; "he will bite your 
nose off." 

So probably Scotchy would have done had the 
artist relaxed his stern, quiet demeanor, or shown 
the least fear. He only repeated the command more 
severely, keeping his eyes fixed on those of the 
dog. As if compelled by some mysterious, irre- 
sistible power, Scotchy sprung into the artist's lap 
with a terrific snarl, and with all his white teeth 

" Kiss me ! " thundered the artist. Scotchy could 
not resist. The spell of the stronger will kept the 
mastery, and the dog did as it had been wont to do 
in earlier days. ' ' Now go lie down and keep still ! " 

Scotchy drew the line at keeping still. That 
he would not do, but growled and snarled at his 
old master throughout his entire call. The same 
scenes were enacted whenever the artist came to 
the house ; and though Scotchy, in spite of all 
protest, was compelled to yield obedience, he never 
abated one jot of his deep-seated grudge. 

,88 7 .] 



By Palmer Cox. 


As day in shades of evening sank, 
The Brownies reached a river bank ; 
And there awhile stood gazing down 
At students from a neighboring town, 

We '11 take possession after dark, 
And in these strange affairs embark." 
They all declared, at any cost, 
A chance like this should ne'er be lost ; 
And keeping well the men in sight 
They followed closely as they might. 

The moon was climbing o'er the hill, 
The owl was hooting by the mill, 
When from the building on the sands 
The boats were shoved with willing hands. 
A " Shadow " model some explored, 
And then well-pleased they rushed on board ; 
The open " Peterboro'," too, 
Found its supporters — and a crew. 

Whose light canoes charmed every eye, 
As one by one they floated by. 
Said one, " We '11 follow as they go, 
Until they gain the point below. 
There stands a house, but lately made, 
Wherein the club's effects are laid ; 

The Indian " Birch-bark " seemed too frail 

And lacked the adjunct of a sail, 

Yet of a load it did not fail, — 

For all the boats were in demand ; 

As well those which with skill were planned 

By men of keenest judgment ripe, 




As those of humbler, home-made type. 
And soon away sailed all the fleet 
With every Brownie in his seat. 

The start was promising and grand, 
But little skill was in demand. 
They steered along as suited best, 
And let the current do the rest. 

So every river, great and small, 
Must have its rapids and its fall ; 
And those who on its surface glide 
O'er rough as well as smooth must ride. 

The stream whereon had started out 
The Brownie band in gleeful rout 
W T as wild enough to please a trout. 

All nature seemed to be aware 

That something strange was stirring there. 

The owl to-whooed, the raven croaked; 

The mink and rat with caution poked 

Their heads above the wave, aghast ; 

While frogs a look of wonder cast 

And held their breath till all had passed. 

As every stream will show a bend, 

If one explores from end to end, 

At times it tumbled on its way 

O'er shelving rocks and bowlders gray. 

At times it formed from side to side 

A brood of whirlpools deep and wide, 

That with each other seemed to vie 

As fated objects drifted nigh. 

Ere long each watchful Brownie there, 

Of all these facts grew well aware ; 

Some losing faith, as people will, 

■ 887.] 



In their companions' care or skill, 
Would seize the paddle for a time, 
Until a disapproving chime 
Of voices made them rest their hand, 
And let still others take command. 

As pallid check and popping eye 
On every side could testify ; 
So all agreed that wisdom lay 
In steering home without delay. 

But still, in spite of whirl or go, 
In spite of hungry tribes below, — 
The eel, the craw-fish, leech, and pout, 
That watched them from the starting out, 
And thought each moment flitting by 
Might spill them out a year's supply, — 




The Brownies drifted onward still ; 
And though confusion baffled skill, 
Canoes throughout the trying race 
Kept right side up in every case. 
But sport that traveled hand in hand 
With horrors hardly pleased the band, 

But morning light came on apace 
Before they reached the starting-place; 
So landing quick, the boats they tied 
To roots or trees as chance supplied, 
And plunging in the woods profound, 
They soon were lost to sight and sound. 





The dear Little School-ma'am was ill. It was 
early in March, and there was snow on the ground. 
The postman brought a little box, and, behold, 
there was spring in it, for it was filled with arbu- 
tus — from Virginia. After many days the snow 
melted and the warm air came in the window 
when the nurse opened it to air the room. And 
one morning, in came a bunch of arbutus — bought 
in market. 

" The old colored woman who sold it gathered 
it in the Jersey woods this morning," said the 
pretty girl who brought it. 

The very next week the scholars sent in a bowl 
full of the same flower — gathered in their own 
woods ; and the School-ma'am said that she had 
never been so rich in arbutus. But, behold, in 
May, when the apples were in blossom and the 
violets were budding in the fresh green grass, 
there came a letter from northern New- York, and 
it said : "I send you a box of arbutus so that you 
may have a taste of spring in your room, you dear 

The dear Little School-ma'am laughed when she 
opened this box. 

" Truly," she said, " never have I had so long 
a spring as this one ! " 


A GENTLEMAN traveling in England, not long- 
ago, hired a saddle-horse for a ride in the neigh- 
borhood of the town where he was staying. When 
he returned and asked the stable-keeper for his 
bill, it was given him in this shape : 

Anosaafada 2s 

Afortheos is 

Anagitinimomeagin 4s 

7 s 

He paid the seven shillings, and then spent his 
leisure moments for several days in trying to get a 

translation. Finally another stableman saw it, 
and read the riddle at once, thus : 

An 'oss a 'alf a day 2s 

'Ay for the 'oss is 

An' a-gittin' 'im 'ome again 4s 

7 s 

Mr. Ernest Ingersoll, who sends me this ac- 
count, says, — "It 's a fact, dear Jack, I assure 


HERE 'S a jingling bit of true philosophy for you, 
my dears, sent to my pulpit by your very sensible 
friend, Mrs. W. S. Reed: 

What 's the use of fretting ? 

What 's the use of crying ? 

What 's the use of dreading ? 

What 's the use of sighing? 

What 's to come will come — 

Now, that there 's no denying ; 

And what is past is past — 

To that there 's no replying. 

To make the present beautiful 

Is what we should be trying, 

In kindly words and noble deeds 

With one another vying. 

So let 's have smiles instead of sighs, 

And all our tears be drying. 


THIS is what a boy of ten wrote after joining the 
Audubon Society : 

There was a bird that lived in spring, 
And he had a beauteous feathery wing, 
And a beautiful voice to rejoice and sing ; 
He could fly up to the sky, 
And see the moon with his little eye. 

It happed one day that a cruel hunter came that 

And he shot the bird with the feathery wing ; 
And he stood and laughed with scorn, 
Because the Audubon Society was born. 

Then down came a condor quick as light, 
With his broad black wings as dark as night ; 
He took the cruel hunter in his beak 
And flew to his nest in the rocky peak. 

Then that awful condor, he 
Made his breakfast and dinner and tea 
Of the man who laughed with scorn 
When the Audubon Society was born. 

You know Audubon was the man who knew 
and wrote so much about birds, and loved them 
so well. It is very fitting that the Society for the: 
Protection of Birds should take his name. If you 
want to know more about the society, and to get 
some of the pledges to sign, and, after you have 
signed, to receive the society's pretty certificates, 
you have only to send your address to the Audu- 
bon Society, No. 40 Park Row, New York. 

It seems strange that any one needs to pledge 

J A C K - I N - T H E - P U L P I T . 


himself not to kill and torment the beautiful creat- 
ures that fill our woods and gardens with life and 
music. If it were snakes, now, or rats, or flies, 
one might be tempted to exterminate them. But 
birds — well, boys will call it sport to rob them of 
their homes, their young, and their joyous life. 
But after all, it is n't nesting or hunting that is 
killing off the birds. It is decking out the toilets 
of the boys' mammas and sisters that is costing the 
birds their existence, at the rate of millions yearly. 

"Oh, you wicked, bad, cruel boy ! " exclaimed 
a young lady sister one day last spring, when her 
brother Tom came in, a thrush's callow brood 
fluttering in his cap. 

" I like that, Miss Feathertop," retorted the 
wicked, bad, cruel boy. " Look at your head, — 
fit for an Injun chief on 
the war-path. I 'm go- 
ing to raise these fellows, 
if you or Mother don't 
wring their necks to trim 
your bonnets." 

Look out, girls, or the 
boys will be making 
verses in which you will 
figure as the cruel hunter 
whom an awful condor 
teaches the lesson of tit- 

or five inches in diameter. A plain watch cost more 
than fifteen hundred dollars ; and after one was or- 
dered, it took a year to make it. 

This is quite different from the present time, 
when watches are so plenty that even boys can 
have them. Charlie H. Pease. 


An ingenious and artistic friend of yours, one 
Alfred Brennan, sends you this wonderful mono- 
gram, in which each one of you, my beloved 
thousands of hearers, can find all the initials of 
your own name. In other words, it contains every 
letter of the alphabet from A to Z. 

In order to be perfectly fair, you see, Mr. 
Brennan shows vou below the monogram a table 


Marlboro', N. H. 

Dear Jack : While 
reading the "Well- 
spring," I saw an item 
which I thought would 
interest the readers of 
St. Nicholas. 

The title was, "The 
First Watch." At first 
the watch was about the 
size of a dessert-plate. It 
had weights, and was 
used as a " pocket-clock. " 
The earliest known use 
of the modern name 
occurs in the record of 
1552, which mentions 
that Edward VI. had 
" one larum or watch 
of iron, the case being 
likewise of iron gilt, with 
two plummets of lead." 
The first watch may read- 
ily be supposed to have 
been of rude execution. 
The first great improvement — the substitution of 
springs for weights — was in 1560. The earliest 
springs were not coiled, but only straight pieces 
of steel. Early watches had but one hand, and, 
being wound up twice a day, they could not be 
expected to keep the time nearer than fifteen or 
twenty minutes in twelve hours. The dials were 
of silver and brass ; the cases had no crystals, 
but opened at the back and front, and were four 


of the letters, which gives an outline of every one 
as it is to be found in his surprising group. 

Young folk are becoming so knowing in these 
days, that the Deacon says it is barely possible 
that before many centuries the alphabet may be 
taught " at one clip," in some such way as this. 
Try it on your baby brothers and sisters. The 
poor little things must be tired of crying for 





Birmingham, England. 

Dear St. Nicholas : I have been going to write to you many- 
times to thank you for all you have been to me. I am one of your 
older children, for my age is nearer thirty than twenty. In fact, 
when I was the latter age, I first made your acquaintance, and now 
eight volumes are on my shelves. I have read you carefully. I 
have recommended you far and wide, and have got you into some 
fifty houses or so. 

When I first made your acquaintance, I was a layman in London, 
and went out frequently to tell your stories to Bands of Hope and 
Sunday-school festivals. Now I am ordained, I carry on the same 
work ; and in the parish where I am curate, I have a children's 
meeting every week, which I call " The Children's Hour" ; we play 
games, sing songs, have drill, and, last of all, I tell a story; and 
two-thirds of my stories I have to thank you for. 

Your stories have done me an immense deal of good, for they 
have kept me in touch and sympathy with children, and I thank you 

Now, I have to ask a favor: will you please put me in com- 
munication with the writer of "Ten Times One is Ten," or some 
one who has to do with " The King's Daughters " Society? 

With all good wishes for many happy years to St. Nicholas and 
its editor. I remain, yours sincerely, E. P. Conner. 

As we already have written to the Reverend Mr. Gonner, Mrs. M. 
L. Dickinson, of 230 W. 59th street, New York, of the Central 
Society of " The King's Daughters," has kindly offered to reply to 
any queries regarding the organization. 

Day here, we run about in the warm sunshine, among the trees and 
flowers, while they (except those who live in the Southern States) 
are playing in the deep snow. There are twelve islands in the 
group, but only nine are inhabited. The country is full of beautiful 
little valleys and hills. This island (Kauai) is said to be the most 
beautiful of the group. It is sometimes called the Garden Island, 
because of its pure air and healthy climate. 

Now I will tell you something about the natives. Their language 
is a very pretty one, for they have only twelve letters in their alpha- 
bet, — five vowels and seven consonants. The natives have black hair, 
large eyes, and dark skin. All the people, men and women, are 
called by their Christian names. Nearly all of their names have 
some meaning, such as Ripe Blossoms, Dark Eyes, Evergreen, 
and The Hot Day. There is nothing very different in their dress 
from other people, except that the women never wear tight dresses. 
They wear a loose Mother Hubbard wrapper, which is known as 
the "Holoku." The men all wear a bright-colored handkerchief 
around their necks. All of them go barefooted. 

I am ten years old, and my auntie (who lives in New York) has 
taken your paper for me for nearly a year. 1 think it is one of the 
nicest papers I have ever read. I think both " Little Lord Faunt- 
leroy " and "Juan and Juanita " are perfectly lovely. I am read- 
ing the latter to Mamma, and she likes it, too. I can hardly wait 
until I get your paper. I go barefooted most of the time. I ride 
horseback and enjoy riding our pony with only a blanket and a rope. 
I am nearly as brown as a native. I have lived in the islands three 
years, though I was born in New York City. Hoping my letter is 
not too long, as it is the first I have ever written to you, I will say, 
Aloha Nui (Good-bye). 

Your affectionate reader, Grace M. A . 

Sharon, Pa. 

Dear St. Nicholas : I have read Mr. Frederick Wright's ac- 
count of " Gas-wells. " We have natural gas here; and, in fact, I 
am writing this letter before a natural-gas fire. 

Papa is manager of the gas plant that is here. We are having much 
trouble with the gas here ; every now and then there is a break on 
the pipe-line which is caused by frost. It is carried fifty miles from 
gas-wells near Franklin, Pa. The gas here has a strong smell of 
petroleum, and we can always tell when it is leaking. We have 
two iron-mills run by gas here. Sometimes the pressure rises to two 
hundred pounds and over. 

Youngstown, a city west of us, in Ohio, received gas a few weeks 
after we did, and they lit it, and we saw the light distinctly, a dis- 
tance of fourteen miles. I saw the gas lit, and it looked just the 
way it is in the picture. The noise made by it was deafening. 

From your constant reader, Oliver S . 

Rochester, N. Y. 

Dear St. Nicholas : I am a little girl twelve years old, and 
have taken you four years, and like you very much. I think " Little 
Lord Fauntleroy" was one of the loveliest stories I have ever read, 
and I like "Jenny's Boarding-house," too. I think the " Brownies" 
are very funny, and I see that in their " Friendly Turn " they got a 
Chinaman to help them. I have a camera, and take pictures of all 
sorts of things, dolls, paper dolls, cats, and all of my playmates; I 
think it is great fun. 

My sister has a copy of " The Battle of the Monkey and the 
Crabs," that was printed in Japan I plav paper dolls a great deal 
and have dolls of all shapes and sizes, and have whole families; I 
guess that I have about twenty in all. 

Last summer some bees in our neighborhood swarmed and lit on 
a tree. A man went up the tree and (he bees lit all over his coat- 
sleeves and hands, but he did not get a sting. It is very pleasant 
here in summer but cold in winter ; in winter we coast and have lots 
of fun, although it is cold ; but in summer we play out-of-doors almost 
all the time. Your little friend, Eleanor L 

Dayton, O. 
Dear St. Nicholas: I am a little sick boy. 1 have been an 
invalid for almost a year, and am confined to my bed nearly all the 
time. My sister had to write this for me, as I am not able to write. 
The only thing I can do is to read. We have taken St. Nicholas 
a long time. I can scarcely wait for it to come. My little baby 
brother thinks the "Brownies" is the nicest piece in the book, 
and we have to read it over and over again to him. 

Your constant reader, Casper N . 

Paris, France. 

Dear St. Nicholas : I am a little French boy, born and living 
in Paris, a famous grand city full of all sorts of beautiful things to 
see on holidays; and I have seen at the Invalides all the old-time 
arms and armor that you pictured in the October number. 

I love all your stories, every one of them, and understand them 
well ; but little Lord Fauntleroy is the grandest of all heroes. 

I hope that Juan and Juanita will not fall again in the hands of 
the Comanches. 

I hope they will find their poor mamma soon, and that she will 
know them right away, and love them again, even more than before, 
for all they have lost. 

Your interested reader, Louis L . 

Oakland, Cal. 
My Dear St. Nicholas : I have taken you for a year, and have 
only written to you once, and I want to write to you again. I sup- 
pose most of your readers have not been to Utah, the land of the 
Mormons. Mamma and Papa and I were the only Gentiles there 
at one time. The little Mormon children are great curiosities. The 
Mormons did not know what a Christmas-tree was until the first 
Christmas we were there, when Mamma said, "Let us have a 
Christmas-tree," and they did not know what it was. But Mamma 
got three or four men to get a tree, and they went and cut down one, 
and a good many came to see it. I hope this is not an insult to the 
Mormons. Your affectionate reader, Birdie C . 

P. S. — I am deeply interested in " Jenny's Boarding-house " and 
"Juan and Juanita." I am nine years old. 

Lihue, Kauai, Sandwich Islands. 
Dear St. Nicholas : A few months ago, I saw in your pages a 
letter from a little girl who lived in Wailuku, Maui, who spoke only 
of vegetable clothing, so I thought perhaps you would like to hear 
a little about the country and the people. In winter it is very rainy, 
but the rest of the year it is quite dry. There is no snow anywhere, 
except on the three high mountains — Mauna Kea, Mauna Loa, 
and Haleakala. It will seem funny to the little children who read the 
St. Nicholas, when I tell them that on Christmas or New Year's 

Catlettsburg, Ky. 
Dear St. Nicholas : It is storming so hard I can't go out. I am 
waiting for Mamma to get through her work so that she can read you 
to me. We live one mile out of town at a little place called Argo 

I think "Juan and Juanita" is a splendid story, and the " Brown- 
ies " I like next, although "Little Lord Fauntleroy" was the best 
of all. 

Your faithful reader, Harry E. M . 

i88 7 .] 




Dear St. Nicholas: Nearly two years ago our grandmamma, 
in Ameiica, sent us your magazine for Mamma to teach us English, 
for our lessons have all been in French and German, although we 
are little Americans. I am nearly eleven years old, and my brother 
is nine. We do enjoy your book very much, and my brother wishes 
he was more like Lord Fauntleroy, he was so nice. We have just 
received the January number, and read "Prince Fairy foo t " all 
alone; so you see we have learned English, as Grandmamma wished. 
We are only eight miles from the sea, and we go there very often. 
We find beauliful shells. 

We are going to America this summer; it will be our seventh 
trip. One day we hope to live there, for we like it better than 

France. Your affectionate readers, Wacil R 

Harvey R- 

Dear St. Nicholas: I am very glad to hear of Little Lord 
Fauntleroy. I would like to have him for my brother. I have a 
little kitten, and it is so playful that it runs after our toes when we 
undress at night, and tries to bite them ; we jump on the bed and 
chairs to get away from it. Its name is Selina. I am a little girl, 
five years old, and am just learning to read and count. I have three 
brothers and only one sister. 

Your loving Mary B. V . 

This interesting little picture is sent to you by your friend Mr. 
Culmer Barnes. 


M. H. L. Many thanks for the cleverly rhymed version of the 

February puzzle. 

Fort Apache, Arizona Territory. 

Dear St. Nicholas: This is my first letter to you. I have taken 
you since September, 1886. I liked little " Prince Fairyfoot" very 
much, and was sorry when it ended. I live for the present in Fort 
Apache, A. T.,and I am ten years old. My papa is a cavalry officer 
in the U. S. A., and we change our place of residence as often as 
he is ordered to a new station. Last year, when General Miles 
ordered Colonel Wade, our post commander, to capture the Chiri- 
cahua Apache Indians, I climbed up on the top of the adjutant's 
office and watched the troops under the colonel advance to where 
the Indians were having a court, and saw them capture every 
Indian, disarming and placing them under guard as prisoners. There 
is no school that I can attend here, so my mamma and my sister 
have to be my teachers. 

Apache is surrounded by rugged mountains, all covered with dark- 
green pine-trees that are very beautiful to look at. I am, with much 
love, your admiring reader, Paul Ward B . 

Noroton, Conn. 
Dear St. Nicholas: I have long been wishing to write to you. 
I am a boy twelve years of age. I have taken your delightful mag- 
azine for six years, and hope to take it several years longer. My 
favorite author is Mr. Stockton, although I like James Otis and 

Frances Burnett. I think the ' 

Brownies" are very funny, and I 
was much interested in " Prince 
Fairyfoot" and "A Fortunate 
Opening." I hope Juan and 
Juanita got safely home to 
Mexico, and I am very much 
interested about the baby in 
"Jenny's Boarding-house." But 
I must stop now, so good-bye. 
Your sincere friend, 

Roeert S. M . 

Brooklyn, N. Y. 

Dear St. Nicholas: We are twins, and read you together. If 
you should print this, my ! would n't we read it and laugh at Grace, 
who does n't believe you will, and is such a creature to laugh ! Do 
you suppose you will ? 

We are — that is, our house is — higher than Trinity Church steeple, 
over in New York. Papa says so. We wonder what he means by 
saying some people are so tall that they go upstairs to put on their 
hats. We think a great deal, but some things are so hard to think 
about, all by yourself ! 

The postman brings our St. Nicholas in a wrapper. One day, 
Grace slipped one of the old numbers in an old wrapper, for fun. 
When we took it out with a great rush, as we always do, we could 
hardly believe our eyes. We knew every picture, every story by 
heart already. We thought it was a very sad mistake till we hap- 
pened to look into Grace's eyes. 

Now, you will put this in, won't you, so we all can laugh? 

Florence and Gertrude. 

Alton, Sioux Co., Iowa. 

Dear St. Nicholas : My 
papa gave you to me for Christ- 
mas. I think the " Brownies " 
very funny indeed : they make 
me laugh every time I see them. 
I enjoyed " Victor Hugo's Tales 
to his Grandchildren " very much. 
I am very anxious to hear the rest 
of " Juan and Juanita," it is such 
an interesting story. Mamma 
paints a great deal and I read 
aloud out of St. Nicholas to her. 

Ever remaining, your loving 
reader, Bessie S . 

Nassau, Ind. 
Dear St. Nicholas: We take 
your magazine in the schools and 
think it very nice. I see your 
paper has a story in it about a dog 
that does not eat when it rains. I 
thought I would write you a line 
about a lecture 1 heard one night 
a year ago. 

The man said there was a little 
girl that went to a spring and 
picked up the cup and did not notice what was in it. It was a tree- 
toad, and it slipped down her throat, and she did not know it till it 
was down. Since that, she said it would often come up in her throat 
and make a little noise, and whenever it did so, it was sure to rain. 
I remain, your true friend, Bertram A. B . 

Dresden, Germany. 

Dear St. Nicholas: I am a little American girl, and have been 
in Europe three years, and am going to spend the winter in Dresden. 
I have taken you for five years, and appreciate you more every 

I have been ill for two months, and my greatest comfort has been to 
read your lovely stories. We have the beautiful picture gallery and 
lovely opera quite near, and we go very often. 

I like Louisa Alcott's stories very much, and hope she will write 
more. Your interested reader, Neva May V . 




An Interesting Experiment. 

Dear St. Nicholas : To suspend a bottle from a match laid on 
the edge of a table may seem an impossible feat ; but the experiment 
will prove how easily it may be accomplished. Tie a piece of twine 
securely around the neck of the bottle; then lay a match on the 
cork, hold it firmly, bring the ends of the twine up over it, and tie 
a tight knot, forming a loop. You may remove the match to show 
that you have simply tied a loop. Then insert the match through 

the loop, rest one end on the cork, and lay the other on the project- 
ing edge of a table where the bottle will swing clear of any obstruc- 
tion. If the match is but an inch in length, it will support the bottle 
quite as readily and make the feat appear all the more surprising. 

S. E. Boggs. 

I don't know much about America, because I was only two years 
old when 1 was brought over. 1 have an uncle in Kansas, and I 
sometimes write to my cousin. I can play the piano, and I have 
begun to learn the violin, French, and Latin; if it is wet in the 
evenings, we have the trapeze, and I like that better than lessons. 

My lather lives in New Zealand, and I write to him very often. 
My birthday is on the 4th of July, and Auntie says it is a big day in 

With much love, and wishing you a happy New Year, I am, dear 
St. Nicholas, Your loving reader, Louis J . 

P. S. — 1 am nine years old. 

Traverse Citv, Mich. 

Dear St. Nicholas : I want to write to you to tell you how 
much I enjoy this beautiful magazine. I receive it at the end of the 
year, bound in two volumes, as a Christmas present, and have taken 
it since 1S74. I was very much interested in " Little Lord Fauntle- 
roy," and could hardly lay it aside for anything else until I had fin- 
ished it. 1 enjoy the Letter-Box, and think the "Brownies" very 
funny, as I see most of the boys and girls of St. Nicholas do. 

I am very anxious to go to school this winter, but as I have just 
recovered from a severe sickness, I think I shall have to wait awhile. 
I have only one bird for a pet. I do not seem to succeed very well 
with kittens and dogs, but I am very fond of all kinds of pets. I 
ride a very gentle pony named Topsey, and think there is nothing 
more pleasant. Your loving reader, Allie C . 

Lexington, Mass. 

Dear St. Nicholas: We are two little girls, and both of us are 
eight years old, so we are twins. We have n't many friends, because 
we don't go to school, but have dear Miss W. to teach us at home. 
We play with our pets. They are two Irish setter-dogs named Bob 
and Bess. 

We ride on our Shetland ponies a great deal. On holidays 
we take our ponies, with Bob and Bess following after, and Tim- 
othy, one of our men, to show us the way, and take our lunch into 
the woods. Almost every night we ride down to the station to meet 
Papa, who goes to Boston every day to his business. To-day it 
rains, and we can not go out, so we thought we would write a letter 
to you. We took you last year for the first time, and liked " Little 
Lord Fauntlerov " ever so much. We have it in a book now, and 
Miss W. reads it to us. 

We like to read the letters in the Letter-Box. Miss W. corrected 
(his for us, and Papa is going to take it to Boston and put it in the 
post-box. Yours, with love, 

Rachel and Gretchen W . 

Arnside Road, Oxton, Birkenhead, ) 
Cheshire, England. ) 

Dear St. Nicholas : This is the first letter 1 have ever written 
to any magazine. I have wanted to write to you for a long time, 
to tell you how I love your magazine ; it is the nicest one I have 
ever seen. 

We have only taken you for one year, but we all love you dearly: 
and we all thought " Little Lord Fauntleroy " a charming tale, and 
1 like "Juan and Juanita," as far as it has gone. 

I am eleven, my brother nine, and my sister seven. 

My brother and I learned that pretty comedy, " Dicky Dot," and 
acted it at a children's Band of Hope. 

My little sister is too young to understand many of your tales, 
but she is very fond of the " Brownies," and always looks out for the 
"little man with the top hat, eye-glass, and stick." 

The only pets we have are pigeons and a bad-tempered cat. 

Your interested reader, Ethel. 

Mexico, Mexico. 

Dear St. Nicholas : This is the first time I have ever written to 
you. I write this because I have never seen any letters in the St. 
Nicholas from Mexico. You may think it strange that I know 
English, but I have lived in New York seven years. There is a fine 
military school here in a castle on a high hill ; it is called Chapul- 
tepec. When boys graduate, they get a salary for whatever they 
have studied for ; a civil engineer, $100 a month. 

Yours truly, Alfonso I. R . 

P. S. — I am farther south than that girl in Savannah, and I assure 
you that the Southern friends love dear St. Nicholas. 

Merthvr Tvdvil, South Wales. 

My Dear St. Nicholas: I have taken St. Nicholas for a long 
time ; it is the best book I have had yet, and " Little Lord Fauntle- 
roy " is the prettiest tale I have ever read. 

I was born in San Francisco ; and when my mother died, my father 
brought me over to Wales. I live with my aunties now; they are 
very kind to me ; they keep a school, and I am in it. 

London, England. 
Dear St. Nicholas: I am an Oppidan, and I wish to correct a 
few mistakes in the article published in the January number of your 
magazine. First of all, Eton claims the proud privilege, which it 
only shares with Winchester, of being a college, and not a school. 
Again, no boys under Middle Fifth can read in either school library. 
It would be termed " great side" of a lower boy. On the 4th of June 
the crews do not go to Henley, but to Surly, about four or five miles 
from Eton. Eton now never rows against Winchester, but occasion- 
ally encounters Radley at Henley Regatta. Hoping that you will 
publish this, Believe me, yours truly, An Etonian. 

McKellar, Ontario. 
Dear St. Nicholas : I have seen very few letters in your col- 
umns from Ontario. I live away up in Parry Sound district, on 
the shores of the Georgian Bay. I have taken you since 1881, 
and I hope that I will not have to quit taking you for four or five 
years more. We have very few amusements up here. My favorite 
pastime is hunting. I have a shot-gun and a Winchester rifle. 
Game of all kinds abounds. From your admiring reader, 

W. B. \V. A——. 

Opelousas, La. 
Dear St. Nicholas: I must tell you how much I have learned 
to love you since our town reading circle, Rev. Mr. Lewis, President, 
first subscribed to you for my benefit, nearly two years ago, al- 
though the grown people enjoy reading you too. I am the only 
child in the reading circle. I love to read the letters, especially 
those from Russia, Australia, and all those far-away places. I have 
noticed that all the children tell you how many brothers and sisters 
they have, and how old they are. I suppose they think you take more 
interest in them, when you know something about them; if so, I 
must tell you I am twelve years old, and an only child : but I have 
so many to pet and love me, that I do not mind it much. I hope 
you will not get many letters before mine this year, so this will not 
be thrown in "the waste basket. Hoping you will give me a welcome, 
I am, your loving reader, Maude du R . 

i88 7 .] 



Amelia Court House, Virginia. 
Dear St. Nicholas: Ever since I was seven years of age (and 
I am now twelve) my mamma has always given me a very nice 
book for one of my Christmas presents ; but to my great surprise 
this year, among my other gifts, I found a beautifully bound book, 
entitled "St. Nicholas." I really love reading, and so you may 
imagine the delightful time 1 have had in reading " Little Lord 
Fauntleroy," and all about the " Brownies" ; and I do hope next 
year Mamma will give me another volume. With best wishes, your 
great admirer, Mabel M . 

Tomales, Marin Co., Cal. 

Dear St. Nicholas: Our school takes St. Nicholas, and now, 
as il is vacation, I am the first one, generally, to get it. I think 
very much of it. 

I have many pets. Among them are a little monkey and a parrot. 
They have great times together. They fight all the time. Any- 
thing he sees you do, the monkey will do the same. I had a cat, 
and he choked it nearly to death. After doing this bit of mischief, 
I chained him up for two days, and now he acts much better. My 
parrot's name is Fred, and my monkey's name is Harry. 

Your true reader, Minnie M. K . 

and so natural. I have often thought since I got my first copy, 
some three years ago, that I could not do without it, and I could 
not, I know. "Juan and Juanita" is a most excellent story, as is 
also " Lord Fauntleroy." I do not remember ever seeing a letter 
from Dakota. I suppose most of the readers of St. Nicholas 
think Dakota out of the world, — a land of buffaloes and Indians. But 
they are mistaken. I live forty miles east of the Missouri River. 
We very rarely see Indians, and then they are civilized. We 
have very cold weather in winter. It has been as low as forty de- 
grees below zero the past week. But in summer our country is quite 
pleasant. We have very beautiful flowers, and our two great pleas- 
ure resorts are Chamberlain on the Missouri River, and Wessington 
Springs. I spent a day and a half last summer at the latter place, 
and found it more beautiful than it had been pictured. The people 
are very energetic, and take great pride in beautifying their naturally 
beautiful place. Wessington Hills, though thirty or more miles from 
here, look to be hardly a mile at the times of the mirage, which is 
one of Dakota's greatest wonders. We once saw a windmill, which 
is five miles from town, plainly revolve. Such is Dakota. When 
she 's nice she 's very nice, and when she 's not, she 's horrid. 
Believe me, your true friend and faithful reader, 

Bessie E. A . 

Asheville, N. C. 

Dear St. Nicholas : I am a little boy ten years old. I am 
spending the winter in Asheville, N. C. It is a very quaint old 
town. The people here ride on a horse, or a mule, or an ox. The 
scenery here is grand ; there are high mountains rising all around. 
I have three sisters. We have a little pony : he will follow me any- 

I like "Juan and Juanita" very much, and hope it will turn out 
all right for ihu children. We have taken your magazine ever since 
I can remember, and like it very much. 

Yours truly, Percy H. G . 

Another Frost-Picture. 

Boston, Mass. 
Editor St. Nicholas : In the February number of St. Nicho- 
las I saw a representation of a frost-picture on a pane of glass. 

In January, 1882, on one of my windows. Jack Frost drew the 
outline of a picture as shown at A in the accompanying sketch. 


It suggested to me {and required but little imagination) the picture 
at B, which I that morning placed in my note-book in order to 
preserve it. The frost-picture of Mr. Whiteley called it to remem- 
brance. I send it only as a curiosity. 

Yours respectfully, H. E. V 

Plankinton, Dak. 
Dear St. Nicholas: Your paper comes to me through the 
news-agent here, and no magazine or paper is hailed with as 
much genuine pleasure as is yours. The stories are so pure, fresh, 

New York City. 

Dear St. Nicholas : I would like to tell you about a doll's May- 
party we had in the country one summer. 

My doll Bella was the Queen, because she was fair. She wore 
blue shoes and socks, a white tarlatan dress, and a veil and a wreath 
on her head. The maids-of-honor were Jeannette and Laura, my 
little cousin's dollies. They wore pink cashmere dresses, and the 
guests wore dresses of a variety of colors. We made all the dolls 
dance and talk, eat fruit and cake, etc. When the party was over, 
I discovered that the poor Queen had danced so hard that she had 
danced off one of her china legs, and her crown and veil were gone 
too. I was obliged to give up looking for the lost articles, for they 
were nowhere to be found; and Bella was, of course, very lame; 
but Clara (my little cousin) begged me to give Bella to her so that 
she could have her for a sick dollie. I think we were silly, now 
that I look back at it all; but 1 think, if I remember correctly, that 
I enjoyed it very much at the time. Yours truly, Josie M . 

We present our thanks, for pleasant letters received, to the young 
friends whose names here follow: Eleanor O., Millicent W., Anita 
P.. C, Nellie J. P., "Adelaide" and "Penelope," G. Russell, 
" Holder Club," Eleanor H., Laura M. H., A. E. W., M. F., W. R., 
Ellen B. H., Mabelle S., Jessie B. W., John Gould R., Jack Bliss, 
Robert L. R., Fanny A. H., Jessamine B., A. L. H., S. Arthur 
Graves, Fanny E. McL, Agnes C, Theodore Simson, Roy Mo, 
Floy S., Allie M. L., Lillie C. F., Hattie S., Pauline L. D. ? Stewart 
M., Grace F. W., Louis Asher, Fullerton L. W., Ella B., Trudy, 
E. I. Brown, Katie R. S., Jay E. Carter, Elseaand Addie, Helen B., 
C. C. Stockton, Flora Frances S., Rebecca A. \V., Roxy P., Maud 
Durrell, "Puss," Nan, Henry S. D., Ruth C, Myra V., Robert 
J. H., Louise T., Ethel M., Mabel T., David W., Vera Rowe, H. 
L. Moore, Alfred B. C, A. M. P., Libby D., H. M. H., Eleanor 
Sewell G., Arthur K. F., A. S., Edwin K. C, Daisy M. B., Kirk 
J. E., Arthur T., Charles Gray, Carrie L. Morse, Julia McC, Sybil 
M. C, "Rob Roy," Edwin N. N., Elinor S., M. and B. Scott, 
Etta B. R., Mary M. C, Maidie T., Daisy May A., Jacqueline and 
Muriel, Gussie G., Winnie C, Ethel G., Gerald B. W., Bessie G. 
H., J. Walter Best, Wallace L. D., Ellen G. B., M. N., E. M. L., 
Ethel, Julian C. V., Annie G., Bina H., Sidney V., Earl R. M., 
Isabel D., Alice O. S., Ira, May 1 and 2, Dora E. T., Richard R., 
Miles B., Charlie C, Edna S. R., Dorville L. Jr., Kate M. H., 
Jenny H., Lynde T., Edith W., Kittie T., Clarke L. J., Hunter R.. 
Jennie D. H., Margaret G. T., H., Edith M. K., Gracie N. H., 
Inez S. H., Florence S. H., Elizabeth L. G., Edna A. D., Henry F., 
Fanny D. B., John U. B., Lolo K., Guy R. H., Carrie G. A., 
Beatrice S. H., Punch Millar, Stella A. G., Bessie B. W., Edith 
May C, Ralph F. B., Willie and Lyle, Adrian T., E. W. Bridge- 
man, Agnes J. A., M. A. J., Fanny R. M., Caro L. Du B., Ernes- 
tine D., J. L. R., May L. E. H., A Subscriber, Gretchen L., B. C. 
Cole, Gertrude G., Hattie S., Una R. J., Edith S., Helen L. M., 
Arthur C. M., Helena B. B., Two Mites' Band, Lucy L. C, "Yum 
Yum," Geo. W. S., Bessie De W. W. ( E. B., Laura L., May D., 
Wild Rose, Alta D. F., Carrie B., Edward S. G., Two Little Maids, 
Ida M. C, Hattie F., Bertha R., Kitty S. B., Louis P., Frank C, 
Bessie S., Richard S. S., Eva A. B., Minnie, Oswald L., Nannie L., 
Phebe V., Geo. A. M., Mildred S., Gertie E. Moore, Ned Evans, 
Laura P., Etta K., Ed. C. C, Alice C, Charles W. L., Polly B., 
Bessie M. B. and Grace L. 




(See St. Nicholas for April, page 47S.) 

From 50 to do.— (Concluded.) " Tracy," C. B. Knight, G. P. K., F. A. Marvin, L. McK. Champlin, A. D. Hall, I. and E. McCready, 
A. M. Hammond, H. and B. Dawes, Daisy Dean, S. W. Jones. M. Hallett, I. Welch, H. R. Kellogg, C. P. F., E. Bendon, A. W. Makooski, 
M. Gray, M. M. and G. Hopkins, F. and \V. Morrison, R. H. Vaile, C. R. F., R. E. Conger, M. D. R., A. C. Webster, " Sun, Moon, and 
Stars," R. S. Dana, M. A. Groff, R. N. Woodbridge, A. S. and C. M. Linney, B. H. Putnam and others, M. H. Sloo, M. D. Kirby, A, 
S. Donnally, C. A. B., C. H. Smith, " Palm Tree," R. Whitney, Parke R. D., " Ruby," R. G. Perkins, F. C, B. O. Runnells, Bertha C. 
P., "K. S. P.." B. S. Thompson, E. K. Martin, C. Jamp, "San Anselmo Valley," C. and G. Stratton, M. L. Merrill, "John Quil," M. 
G. Foster, C. N. B. C, S. and H. Bostwick, A. H. W., W. L. H., M. E. Nye, "Zyx," H. S. Dormitzer, W. M. Blinks, M. P. Hunter, 
A. Hervey, H. S. E., M. W. Dame, I. H. Hall, H. L. Bigelow, J. Homan, H. Griffith, C. J. D., W. C. Emerson, F. H. Searer, E. R. 
Woodruff, H. H. Meadows, "Mary," "Bert Ball," O. Smith, L. B. Justice, L. A. Hobbs, A. R.Thompson, G. G. Dennett, "Hilltop," 
" Budge,"J. E. Sharp, N. and A. Kent, F. Hudson, H. Oustin, E. Hyde, E. Hill, A. jMoore, J. M. Mavnard, B. C. Wheeler, I. E. Cotton, 
F. Wardwell, T. P. Woodward, L. T. V., G. Vielie, Fox Bros., J. H. Browne, M. Smith, M. B. E., " Ouidus," A. S. Murphy, W. G. Libby, 
"Snip," N. Freeman, "Ben Zeene " and "Tom Ascat," G. F. De Wein, G. Schute, "Marchioness," I. A. Hackett, J. B. D. and 
M. F. D., G. T. Rowland, B. Stuart, R. C. Bean, F. E. Bonsteel, E. S. Parke, " Trudie, Lee, and Scotty," F. H. Hamilton, E. G. M., 

A. S. Read, J. B. Potter, M. L. Haines, J. L. P., " Cub," C. C. Hyatt, S. S. Posey, " The Jays," Dorothy, Helen, and Mabel, E. L. Mills, 
K. Nelson, J. M. Field, A. Love R . N. Barlow, C. Strickland, L. T. Crawford, E. Lee S., C. F. Potter, H. Greene, F. D. Stone, E, Cooper, 
" Gopht," C. Goodhue, Molly and Ted, " Mohawk Valley," E. C. Reifsnyder, " Aio," S. F. Spear. K. F. S., W. Davey, Ida, Alice, Jessie, 
and Lucy, G. D. McBirnev, M. L. Eabes, B. Tucker, C. H. Royce, " Reader," A. R. Tredick, A. R. Barrow, J. R. P., H. B. MacKoy, 
Astoria, A. T. P., D. Jackson, I. and E. Swanwick, Mrs. A. F. Crole, J. G. R. Flemming, F. P. Price, M. Petsch, " Hyacinthe," 
L. C. Jones, F. H. Roberts, J. Tolson, N. Hovey, B. A. Mayhew. "Commune," D'A. A. Porter, J. R. De Witt, A. B. F., I. Parmelee, 
F. A. Bragdon, J. C. Coleman, Jr., L. E. Dains, M. M. Hewitt, H. L. and S. R. Swan, O. T. Crissey, S. Bassett, Carrie G. H., G. C. 
Brown, M. Leake, G. Maw, L. D. Cree, J. A. Taylor, C. S. Seaver, W. P. Smith, H, E. S., A. E. Paret. H. Blydenburgh, A. L. Brown, 
" The Spencers," L. F. Entwisle, " Lilu," A. W. S. and C. H. K., J. and B. Corbus, R. McA. Leland, F. G. Barlow, M. S. Betts, M. L. 
Radcliffe, A. Forster. A. Holliday. " Pansy," M. E. Smith, L. S. Love, S, M., B. S. Newhall. M. D. Emery, J. A. H. H., L. Harris, 
L. B. Stevens, M. Hempstead, W. H. Graves, " Jacques," Nellie and Tom V., Russ Wilkins, G. and G. Shoup, " Tate" J. and M. Bartlett, 
C. J. Downey, H. W. Warner, R. W. Bradlee, R. S. Hooker, M. M. Wolfe, C. N. B. C, W. C. Emerson, A. L. Liebmann, F. H. Vinci], 
H. O. Oakley, G. P. Paine, F. S. Fay, M. L. Cromwell, S. Packard, E. C. and E. F. Staples, W. P. Sullivan, A. Baker, S. M. Pollock, 
S. M. Spencer, Jr., L. E. Piper, I. M. G., M. H. Allen, S. Fleisher, A. Moore, H. W. Cowles, Bessie and Mabel R., N. F.'Cary, 
Mrs. W. G. Robbins, I. Murray, C. C. Wright, M. Burton, F. B. Noonan, L. A. M., M. C. Davis, May B., A. M. Wickam, G. A. Ferguson, 
H. Saviar, L. M. Brownson, B. B. Holmes, M. A. Tilden, A. S. Fulton, C. and E. Bourland, M. Thompson, F. G. French, L. Giles, 
E. Conway, W. L. Grant, H. G. and W., E. R. Morgan, E. A. B., G. W. Emmerson, G. H. and M. B. G., " Pollux," L. B. K., S. Chester, 

E. Herbert, Mrs. C. H. Raynor, C. S. Parker, Mrs. J. H. Brewer, " Priscilla and G. Washington," C. W. Frederick, F. White, A. R. 
Vredenburgh, E. I. Brown, C. R. Osborne, O. B. Dilson, " Sotsyand Wotsy," E. Dean, R. C. Porter, F. W. M. and H. L. M., A. E. Linn, 
H. R. Holmes, " Peggotty," J. L. Nelson, R. M. McCloud, L. C. Norris, L. S. Johnson, P. L. Anderson, L. D. Case, K. J. Drumm, 
M. Marston and W. Kerr, E. Brooks, C. Cooley, M. F. Smith, "Mrs. Leeks and Mrs. Aleshine," M. Reynolds, "Busy Bee," Connie 
and Annie, R. S. Sinclair. R. E. N. D., A. M. McK., Les deux Cousins, C. F. Doyle, Jr., L. F. Warren, B. E. Smith, E. W. Bartan, 

F. Warren, J. C. Burrcll. "Miss Flint," B. E. K., Mrs. Wilson, J. M. Wile, Jule "H., H. and B. Dawes, P. T. Burrows, G. F. R., 
W. B. Smith, E. F. De Witt, Mrs. C. M. Leete, L. Bell, E. Clark. V. B. Belnap, F. A. Cooke, H. M. Slade, V. Barrett, M. E. Ladd, 

B. Hunt, I. H. Bulnam, A. M. Grozelier, E. A. P., W. S. Greene, J. H. D., "Mess," " B. Ma," M. L. Gerrish, "Jo and I," E. M. K., 
" Malice," C. Wettstein, " Puck," L. B. Kimball, L. Freeman, R. Wood and C. White, F. R. F., J. C. Breckinridge, Jr., M. Kennard, 
A. C. Willetts, " Ninepin," E. Ravner, J. Earle, " Francis," " Booties' Baby," G. W. M. B. G. P. B., F. and M. Galloway, K. A. T. R., 
W. T. A., W. R. Parsons. 

From 45 to so S. D., A. M. S. and H. A. M., E. Prescott, C. A. Lee, L. E. Henon. T. lenks, R. K. M, W. J. Greanelle, A. N. Frink, 

A. Aldrich, L. V. K., J. C. Parsons, L. A. H., R. Wilkinson, A. B. Shaw, Bessie and Carrie", B. P. Hale, Lillie M. M., C. H. Strang, E. S. 
Fechheimer, F. F. Evans, H. H. Burdick, R. Strang, C. J. Brown, F. I. and G. W. Whittemore. T. Hirshinger, C. L. Hoffman, J. 
Moore, H. G. Walker, M. Taylor, "Lady Macbeth and Juliet," A. E. B., W. H. S., M. C. Wight, F. S. Henderson, L. H. Cole, 

E. Stockwell, Ruth H.. E. Robins and M. R. Thouron, F. M. Hicok, " Two Lous," A. Travis, " Puzzler," A. Adams, M. D. Du Bois, M. 
Butler, S. Hubbell, M. L. Westgate, A. H. R. and M. G. R., S. O. Haven, B. Hamrick, J. Kaplan, M. C. Keene, N. S. Conover, L. Collins, 
M. Passano, J. L. March, L. J. Arrowsmith, " May-Lou," B. H. Smith, M. Boise. E. White, G. A. Hall, I. W. and A. P., Joe, Ella, and 
Emma, A. Fitch, J. P. Richardson, " Pansyand Lilac," L. Arder, L. J. Frankenthal, F. Adams, M. M. M., " Two Redheads," R. Eugene, 

C. M. Smith, G. L. S. Parker, G. A. Toffey, L. M. Keith, W. Chapman, C. and S. McLaren, E. Brookes, J. H. M. R., " Clifford and Coco," 
H. Lengel, R. C , Glen Ridge, C. S. Gore. "The McA's," C. D. H., S. L. Fox, J. Dobell, Vivian V. V., W. D. Keep, "Don Guzman," 
M. Carver, A. T. Day. E. MacElroy. H. C. Woodman, "Ohnja," B. Koehler, F. B. Morse, J. C. Howell, C. Mischka, A. Cadwell, J. 

F. Roberts, J. C. Newlin, J. J. Shuman, I. C. Dunkerson. G. A. Muns, M. Crosby, K. W. Nelson. W. A. Adriance, E. H. E., R. Bab- 
cock, A. F. Lewis, M. Bombav, Deerfoot, E. Haswell, F. Gibbs, R. R. B., F. Wood, H. Norwood, L. W. T. and M. S. E., C. E. Slocum, 

B. Suppiger, E. R. Jones, E. G. Davis, H. Biggeret, M. M., A. Travis. A. D. Pratt, H. Wagner, A. G. Baker, G. F. Koon, J. S. C, M. 
and H. Hall, "Castor and Pollux," M. A. Locke, S. Sax, L. Pinney, E. Reizenstein, C. B. Wiener, A. H. Woodward, H. Murray, Mrs. 
F. M. Tompkins, L. Ward, " Etc.," W. G. Peck, H. Rommel, Mrs. C. H. Emmons, M. Burns, E. M. Aiken, N. Hamilton, J. F. McBrien, 

E. A. Warren, S. G. B., S. G. T., Jr., F. W. Crosby, Ross Street, L. H. S., Clara and Robert. L. A. Logan, Ned and Abbie, C. Howe, 

F. A. Tooker, G. Capen, H. A. Whiting, N. E. Winer, G. C. and J.. G. F. and M. Dashiell, T. M. Nye, E. T. C, V. and L., Chris, K. 
M. Mason, H. and J. Hamilton, E. E. Gisburne, M. B. Stabler, M. E. Bushnell, A. B. M., "Nemo," F. E. Stanton. Dora, C. M. Moore, 
S. H. Teall, Grace and Adda, M. Connolly, G. Daniels, N. Baur, Professor and Co., M. E. Mixter, E. Kirudson, A. T. Miner, L. Levan, 

A. R. Stevens, M. C. Jones, " O for [oe," Gip, M. Raymond, Blanche and Fred, O. P. Renning, F. W. Merrill, A. Oliver, F. M. Boyd, 
W. R. Dorr, F. W. Phelps, C. M. Hunter, A. Mason, B. Lake, F. M. Dodge, E. Cape, H. Kempe and N. Clark, " L. S. and Teeto- 
taler," G. L. M., H. E. D., F. E. Barton, E. F. Knips, C. S. D. P., J. Sewell, C. Robinson, L. D. Buell, G. H. Sargeant, G. H. Pum- 
phrev, B. and S., G. C. Gammon, P. Overlin, S. Yeates, L. J. Owen, M. Walton, M. R. Brown, P. Granbery, Alice S., S. Comstock, L. 

D. Hart, S. A. Franks, H. F. Shrimpton, Q. Wheeler, E. L. Nichols, M. McC, F. S. Church, C. Orcutt, P. Ferris, H. and I. Knechler, 
P. Allen, M. E. Locke, H. P. Gur, L. C. Baker, F. P. Riplev, A. Brooks, Isabel C. A., D. and B. Cumming, R. D. Spry, E. C. H., L. 

B. Cain, C. P. Reed, L. Maxon, A. E. Abernethy. I. E. M., Ft. T. Gould, A. V. Pierce, C. T. Wilder, J. L. Hildreth, J. J. Craig, P. Reese, 
"Nemo." Mollie, T. Lindsley, E. L. Umpleby, Tet, C. E., N. S. and E. E. Carey, S. Rutledge, I. Lebermann, Lorane, A. and E. William- 
son. O. Smith, E. E. Carman, M. S. Tracy, B. F. and J. W. H. Porter, L. Sparks, A. McLenegan, E. Stanton, M. and R. Cole, "C. Blos- 
som, R. and Le R. Opdvke, L. G. A., H. J. Woodworth, Mavo, F. G. Adams, F. Botsford, M" P. Hitchcock, R. M. P., G. C. Tyler, E. C. 
G., D. H. B, P. R. Coates. E. Stoy, W. R. Fisher, C. L. A., M. D. Seese, F. A. and C. P. Foster, N. Norris, L. G. Parkinson, F. 
Allen, B. Richards, M. C. Eames, G. H. Curtiss, " Gif," " Somebody," " Walnut," " Checkmate," S. E. Clapp, E. M. Poland, A. Hin- 
man, E. Riffle, H. L. S. and W. F., A. Duryee, Grace E. K., E. Van Deusen, S. Pierce, E. S. Black, K. W. and L. A. Denson, B. 
Fudge, A. W. Booraeur, N. Oglevee, T. B. Robinson, E. D. Colwell, E. G. Fiss, "Pie," H. L. Eason, R. K. MacLea, A. Zagallo, M. F. 
Miller, L. Prior, O. Engelmann, W. S. F.. G. W. Smith, E. C. Gardner, "Eureka," "Brightwood," F. Moss, F. C. Waller, W. G. Little, 
L. Wilson. E. Crocker, H. E. Deats. I. Erhardt. L. A. Hallock. C. E. Ruth, D. C. D., Nannie D., R. W. Meyers, A. G. Farwell, B. K. 
Marshall, E. Embros, M. S. Searls, C. F. Hoagland, J. de P. Watts, G. D. O., W. S. Gilles, " May and 79," M. L. Masters, G. E. M., 
Nina, A. F. Van Bibber, F. P. Loomis. S. J. Howe, A. C. Nelson. M. Prentis. A. W. lamison, F. Eaton. H. H. Clark, A. D. F., Mignon, 
S. E. Martin, S. E. W., E. Pickings. E. Phillipps, M. E. A., E. G. W., Winnie and Rhoda, A. H. Withington, J. Chubb, H. C. F. 
McCreerv, "The Doctor," A. B. C. W. L. Fenn. "Toboggan," H. A. Kuehn. M. Gimson, N. L. Howes, I. J. Fisher, R. Lvon, F. A. 
Bryant, S. Mulhull, E. L. Hanington, P. M. W., Willie and Kittie, S. F. Hall, E. S. Griffith, M. F. Paul, G J. Graves, Jr., A. L. Pickett, 
L. Arnold. C. M. Gray, M. N. Stokes, J. D. Flandrau, J. A. Jannev, E. L. Young, A. K. Brainerd, F. F. Campbell, C. L. Smith, 
A. and J. Brevoort, B. Hofford, E. E. Sprague, W. D. Van Blascom, S. Tollansbee, M. S., A. L. Schnecker, G. P. Hitchcock, W. L. 
Cochran, A. Taylor, E. C. Moreley, A. Johnson, "Nan," A. Eldridge, A. and F. Walmsley, M. Haney, Agnes J. B., A. E. Anderson, 
" Fire-fly," M, A. C, H. M. Jones. N. M. Bond, "Theo.Ther," C. Appel, "Ordie," J. Christian, E. H. Sackett. Albert and Grace, 

E. M. S., S. S. D., M. S., E. Dick, W. A. Payne, W. A. Preston, Jr., Sadie W., E. F. Howard, J. Tryon, E. M. Bennett, M. and E. 
Upton, Otis S., M. Higby, S. Collins, S. M. L., G. L. M.. C. B. Pratt, G. D. Leach, Winnie B.. A. and H. W., F. S. Salisbury, W. S. A., 
E. and K. Weld, M. C. N., S. C. W., B. Temby, F. H. Gregory, I. H. Peck, H. M. A., O. J. Healing. (To be continued.) 





Easy Greek Cross. . I. i. Harp. 2. Area. 3. Reap. 4. 
Papa. II. 1. Hasp. 2. Anna. 3. Snip. 4. Papa. III. 1. 
Papa. 2. Arid. 3. Pine. 4. Aden. IV. 1. Aden. 2. Dire. 3. 
Eras. 4. Nest. V. 1. Aden. 2. Dove. 3. Even. 4. Nero. 

Cross-word Enigma. Thermometer. 

Some Easter Eggs. Cross-words: 1. Entrance. 2. Talisman. 
3. Disgusts. 4. Scatters. 5. Speakers. 6. Armature. 7. Trac- 
tile. 8. Vicinage. 9. Madrigal. 10. Caressed. Zigzag, from 1 to 
10, Easter-tide; from 11 to 20, Easter eggs. 

Double Acrostic. Primals, Palanquin; finals, Cabriolei. Cross- 
words: 1. Pacific. 2. ArenA. 3. LamB. 4. AmeeR. 5. Na- 
omi. 6. QuartO. 7. UnequaL. 8. InvitE. 9. NuggeT. 

St. Andrew's Cross of Diamonds. I. 1. R. 2. Lot. 3. 
Royal. 4. Tan. 5. L. II. 1. L. 2. Set. 3. Lemur. 4. Tun. 
5. R. III. 1. L. 2. Net. 3. Lever. 4. Tea. 5. R. IV. 1. 
L. 2. Nut. 3. Lunar. 4. Tar. 5. R. V. 1. R. 2. Air. 3. 
Ripen. 4- Red. 5. N. 

Connected Word-squares. Upper square : 1. Mead. 2. Ease. 

3. Asia. 4. Dean. Lower square : 1. Slat. 2. Lane. 3. Anil. 

4. Tell. Diagonals, Mainsail. 

Pi. Come up, April, through the valley, 

In your robes of beauty drest, 
Come and wake your flowery children 

From their wintry beds of rest. 
Come and overblow them softly 

With the sweet breath of the south ; 
Drop upon them, warm and loving, 
Tenderest kisses of your mouth. 
Easy Cube. From 1 to 2, heaven ; 2 to 4, nation ; 3 to 4, red- 
den ; 1 to 3, hinder; 5 to 6, gander ; 6 to 8, rodent ; 7 to 8, sprout ; 
5 to 7, genius; 1 to 5, hang; 2 to 6, near; 4 to 8, neat; 3 to 7, rags. 
Connected Pyramids. Reading across: 1. P. 2. All. 3. 
Green. 4. Rotator. 5. S. 6. Cub. 7. Aural. 8. Impetus. 
Centrals downward, Pleasure. 

To our Puzzlers: In consequence of advancing the date of issue, hereafter answers, to be acknowledged in the magazine, must 
be received not later than the 15th of each month. Answers should be addressed to St. Nicholas " Riddle-box," care of The Century 
Co., 33 East Seventeenth St., New-York City. 

Answers to all the Puzzles in the February Number were received, before February 20, from E. Ripley — Clifford and 
Coco — Bessie Jackson — Mary Ludlow — R. B. Stone — Nellie and Reggie — San Anselmo Valley — Harry H. Meeder — Percy H. 
Thomas — Edward L. Lyon — K. G. S. — M. E. P. — Paul Reese — "Witches" — " Three Innocents " — Francis W. Islip — Tony Atkin- 
son — "Blithedale." 

Answers to Puzzles in the February Number were received, before February 20, from Charlie and Herbert, 2 — Ramona, 1 — 
F. E. L., 1 — C. T. R., 11— M. F. C, 1— Maggie T. Turrill, 11 — Bea and Kit, 4 — H. M. Rochester, 1 —Buff and M, 1— J. D. Mal- 
lory, 1 — F. N. K., 1 — Primary, 1 — Lotta, 3 — Uno and Ino, 2— J. M. G., 7— -L. H. L. and R. D. S. M., S — Alice and Belle, 1 — 
Patience, 10 — H. W. G., 2 — Don, 2 — Bess, 1 — W. R. Moore, 11 — J. G. Vogt, 5 — Jamie and Mamma, 9 — Puffy, 2 — Bluebell, 1 — 
Sidney, 2 — " Wild Rose," 1 — Puss, 2 — Mab, 1 — Hildegarde and Eloise, 2 — " Mother Gary's Chickens," 1 — Yellow Kitten, 1 — Eva 
Smith, 3 — C. Griffith, 1 — Hyacinthe, 2 — "Tycoon," 1 — T. H. Batchelor, 2 — Somitodyeke, 1 — Lucy L. Brookes, 6 — Effie K. Tal- 
boys, 8— Family Kid, 6— B. D. P., 11 — L. H. L. and D. M., 2 — Professor and Co., 8 — J. N. Carpenter, 1 — L. H. W., 3 — Puck, 2 
— Fred W. Mile, 1 — " Friends," 9 — Martha Barrie, n — Murphy, 1 — Percy Varian, 8 — " Sally Lunn " and " Johnny Cake," 8 — 
Claude Still, 3 — Adonis and Rosetta, 1 — No Name, 2 — Marigold and Carnation, 4 — " May and 79," o — "Rotide," 2 — S. and B. 
Rhodes, 10 — W. G. U., 1 — Princess, 2 — Madeleine E. P., 1 — E. A. Baumann, 1 — L. C. B., 6 — Mrs. Leeks and Mrs. Aleshine, 4 — 
Lock and Key, 4 — H. D. H., 1 — Tad, 1 — Mamma and Jean, 1 — Elsie R. S., 1 — Gladys Delavie, 1 — " Le Brecht," 7 — R. H. and 
P. M., 11 — Belle Abbott, 2—" Fanned," 9 — B. Z. G. n — " F. A. Mily," 8— "Lehte," 5— W. K. C, 3— J. L. H. and E. B. H., 3 — 
"Electric Button," 11 — G. L. M., 8—" Council of Three," 9 — N. L. Howes, 6 — A. G. L., 8 — " L. Rettop," 5— L. L. B., 2 — Jones 
Children, 1 — " Two Cousins," 7. 


kind. 7. Behead wisdom and leave metal. 8. Behead obscure and 
leave a place of safety. 9. Behead an image and leave to study. 

The beheaded letters spell the name of a man whom Americans 
should honor. "little tycoon." 

a is 

Reading Across: i. In familiar. 2. A verb. 3. A word which 
expresses assent. 4. A wharf. 5. To seize and hold possession of 
wrongfully. 6. An inhabitant of a certain northern country. 7. 
Endless. 8. To mention. 

From 1 to 8, the name of a famous poem ; from 9 to 15, an object 
which will soon be quite common. " katasha." 


From one word of thirteen letters every word in the following sen- 
tence may be formed. No letter is used twice in any word unless it 
occurs as many or more times in the original word, which contains 
the five vowels of the English alphabet in their regular order. What 
is the word of thirteen letters? 

" I can count one nose on a face, ten toes on feet; use an ounce 
of tea ; sit at ease on a fence to cast a net ; cut fustian into a fine 
coat ; entice an acute cousin to factious action ; tease ten cats in a 
season ; cast an aunt's faction into aeons of fusion ; cite facts to 
fasten sin on a saint." charley b. 



Cross-words (of equal length) : 1. To muse. 2. Benches. 3. 
Supported. 4. A tree whose leaves are used for decoration. 5. A 
kind of high shoe anciently worn. 

The central letters, reading downward, spelt the surname of an 
American general. 

When the letters forming this name have been removed, the re- 
maining letters of the cross-words answer to the following definitions : 

1. A small quantity. 2. Places. 3. A hard substance. 4. Sacred. 
5. A small animal. e. coppee thurston. 

The center, 


Impetuous. 3. To be in accord. 


4. Pipes. 5. 


i. Behead unfurnished and leave a verb. 2. Behead tart and 
leave a famous epic poem. 3. Behead a contest and leave a unit. 4. 
Behead a journey and leave a pronoun. 5. Behead injury and leave 
an inlet of water from the sea. 6. Behead a presage and leave man- 

From i to 2, fault ; from 1 to 3, sharply notched ; from 2 to 3, 
capable of being touched ; from 4 to 5, a souvenir; from 4 to 6, a 
species of parrot ; from 5 to 6, an elaborate discourse. 

" myrtle green." 




Each of the twenty little pictures in the above illustration suggests the name of a bird, 
the birds in the order in which they are numbered. 


G. B. 


Across: i. To spin. 2. Frames for holding pictures. 3. To 
threaten. 4. Wheel-shaped. 5. A rent-roll. 6. Narrated. 

Downward: i. In digress. 2. A pronoun. 3. An engine of 
war. 4. A tribe mentioned in the Bible. 5. General meaning. 6. 
Puffs up. 7. Not plentiful. 8. A feminine name. 9. To consume. 
10. An article much used by the French. 11. In digress. 



knot. 2. A dance. 3. Always. 4. In kindness. 5. To interro- 
gate. 6. Nimble. 7. To differ in opinion. Centrals, reading down- 


ward, a famous hero. 


My primals spell the Christian name, and my finals the surname, 
of an English poet who was killed at the siege of Zutphen. 

Cross-words (of equal length): 1. Seven stars of the constella- 
tion Taurus. 2. Sincerely. 3. Excited. 4. To make longer. 5. 
Rude. 6. A boastful display ofknowledge. frank s. 

I. Left-hand Hour-glass. Across : 1. A large city. 2. Lin- 
eage. 3. A young animal. 4. In kindness. 5. Past. 6. A fish. 
7. Warded off. Centrals, reading downward, more juvenile. 

II. Upper Diamond: i. In kindness. 2. To be ill. 3 
abrogate. 4. Related by birth or marriage, 
duced. 7. In kindness. 

III. Lower Diamond: i. In kindness. 
bird of the parrot family. 4. Determined. 5. 
a spot. 6. Very small. 7. In kindness. 

IV. Right-hand Hour-glass. Across 

To be ill 
Very pale. 

6. In- 

2. Mankind. 3. A 
An old word meaning 

1. In the form of a 


I am composed of nineteen letters, and am the name of a famous 
Egyptian king. 

My 8-3-6-1-14-7 was a Roman general. My 13-5-4-1-9-10 was 
a small town which was the seat of a famous oracle. My 12-5-19-3 
-1 was a fabulist. My 13-10-13-3 was a celebrated queen of Car- 
thage. My 6-14-6-8-17-10-19 was an ancient Egyptian city. My 
8-1 5-12-2-3 was an Athenian philosopher. My 2-10-2-18-19 was 
an emperor of the Romans. My 4-7-13-10-12 was a country of 
Asia Minor. My 6-10-19-2-15-5-2-3-14 was an object of supersti- 
tious veneration by the Druids. My 18-4-7-19-19-5-19 was a fa- 
mous Greek hero. My 12-2-2-10-4-12 was a famous king of the 
Huns. My 2-9-12-4-14-19 was the most celebrated of the seven 
Grecian sages. My 19-7-4-15-12 was a noted Roman tyrant. 

" epaminondas. " 


My first is in cotton, but not in silk ; 
My second in coffee, but not in milk ; 
My third is in wet, but not in dry ; 
My fourth is in scream, but not in cry ; 
My fifth is in lark, but not in sparrow ; 
My sixth is in wide, but not in narrow ; 
My seventh in pain, but not in sting; 
My whole is a flower that blooms in spring. 




Vol. XIV. JUNE, 1887. No. 8. 

[Copyright, 1887, by The CENTURY CO.] 

By Frank Dempster Sherman. 

June ! delicious month of June ! 

When winds and birds all sing in tune ; 

When in the meadows swarm the bees 

And hum their drowsy melodies 

While pillaging the buttercup, 

To store the golden honey up ; 

O June ! the month of bluest skies, 

Dear to the pilgrim butterflies, 

Who seem gay-colored leaves astray, 

Blown down the tides of amber day ; 

O June ! the month of merry song, 

Of shadow brief, of sunshine long ; 

All things on earth love you the best, — 

The bird who carols near his nest ; 

The wind that wakes and, singing, blows 

The spicy perfume of the rose ; 

And bee, who sounds his muffled horn 

To celebrate the dewy morn ; 

And even all the stars above 

At night are happier for love, 

As if the mellow notes of mirth 

Were wafted to them from the earth. 

O June ! such music haunts your name; 

With you the summer's chorus came ! 






By Frank R. Stockton. 

In the visit which we are about to make to the 
largest and richest civilized city in the world, I will 
mention at the outset that if any one were to 
undertake to walk one way only through all the 
streets of London, he would be obliged to go a 
distance of two thousand six hundred miles, or as 
far as it is across the American continent from 
New- York to San Francisco. This will give an 
idea of what would have to be done in order to see 
even the greater part of London. 

In our approach to this city, as well as in our 
rambles through its streets, we shall not be struck 
so much by its splendid and imposing appearance 
as by its immensity. Go where we may, there 
seems to be no end to the town. It is fourteen 
miles one way, and eight miles the other, and con- 
tains a population of nearly four million people, 
which is greater, indeed, than that of Switzerland 
or the kingdoms of Denmark and Greece com- 
bined. We are told on good authority that there 
are more Scotchmen in London than in Edinburgh, 
more Irishmen than in Dublin, and more Jews 
than in Palestine, with foreigners from all parts of 
the world, including a great number of Americans. 
Yet there are so many Englishmen in London, 
that one is not likely to notice the presence of 
these people of other nations. 

This vast body of citizens, some so rich that they 
never can count their money, and some so poor 
that they never have any to count, eat every year 
four hundred thousand oxen, one and a half 
million sheep, eight million chickens and game 
birds, not to speak of calves, hogs, and different 
kinds of fish. They consume five hundred million 
oysters, which, although it seems like a large 
number, would only give, if equally divided among 
all the people, one oyster every third day to each 
person. There are three hundred thousand serv- 
ants in London, enough people to make a large 
city; but as this gives only one servant to each 
dozen citizens, it is quite evident that a great 
many of the people must wait on themselves. 
Things are very unequally divided in London ; 
and I have no doubt that instead of there being 
one servant to twelve persons, some of the rich 
lords and ladies have twelve servants apiece. 

There are many other things of this kind which 
I might tell you, and which would help to give you 
an idea of the vastness and wealth of this great 

center of the world's commerce, into whose port 
twenty thousand vessels enter annually ; while 
land is so valuable that a single acre of it has been 
sold for four and a half million dollars. But we 
must now proceed to see London for ourselves ; 
and we shall begin at the great church of St. 
Paul's, which is in one of the most busy and 
crowded portions of the city. 

I must say here that a particular portion of 
London is known as " the City." Although it is 
comparatively but a small part of the metropolis, 
it is the center of business, and contains the great 
mercantile houses, the Bank of England, the Ex- 
change, the General Post-Office, the courts of jus- 
tice, the great newspaper offices, and the famous 
London Docks. " The City" is presided over by 
the Lord Mayor, that personage of whom you have 
read so much, and who has nothing at all to do 
with the rest of London. 

In the midst of this busy, noisy, and crowded 
section stands St. Paul's, with its dome high above 
everything. When it was new and its marble was 
white, this church must have been very handsome, 
viewed from the outside ; but now it is a dingy 
gray, and in some places quite black, on account 
of the coal-smoke which is continually settling 
down upon London, making it the grimiest, dingi- 
est city in the world. It is everywhere the same. 
The splendid white marble buildings are now gray 
and black ; the bricks of which most of the houses 
are built are generally the color of an old ham ; 
and if you see a bright or fresh-looking house in 
London, you may be sure that it has very recently 
been painted or built. If you want to know the 
reason of this, we will go up to the top of the 
dome of St. Paul's, from which we can look down 
upon a great part of London. 

As we gaze upon the vast city stretching out far 
on every side, one of the first things which will at- 
tract our attention will be the amazing number of 
chimney-pots which stand up from the roof of every 
building, large and small. There seem to be mill- 
ions of them, some earthenware and some iron, 
some of one shape and some of another, some twist- 
ed, and some straight; but three or four, and 
often more, on every chimney. From all these 
chimney-pots, during cold or cool weather, and 
from a great many of them during the whole of the 
year, rise up little curls or big curls of the dark 



heavy smoke which 
comes from the soft 
coal generally burned 
in London. This 
smoke, which is oft- 
en filled with little 
specks of soot, rises 
a short distance into 
the air and then 
gently settles down 
to blacken and be- 
grime the city. 

At certain seasons, 
when the air is heavy 
with moisture, this 
smoke helps to form 
a fog quite different 
from those to which 
people in other cities 
are accustomed. It 
is so thick and dark 


that the day seems like night. People can not find 
their way in the streets ; vehicles must stand still or 

run into one another ; the street lamps 
shed a sickly light for only a yard or 
two around ; windows are closed and 
houses are lighted at midday as if it 
were midnight ; and until the fog rises, 
the out-door life of London comes very 
nearly to a full stop. To see one of 
these fogs may do very well for a nov- 
elty, but we shall try not to be in Lon- 
don at the season when they generally 
occur, which is late autumn and winter. 
St. Paul's is the largest Protestant 
church in the world ; and when we get 
inside of it and stand under the great 
dome, we shall be apt to think that it 
is a bare-looking place, and rather too 
big. It is adorned with a great many 
fine groups of statuary in memory of 
English soldiers and heroes ; but these 
do not help much to brighten up its 
cold and dull interior. St. Peter's at 
Rome is twice as large, but is a much 
more cheerful place. 

It seems rather odd to come to a 
churchyard to buy things, but St. 
Paul's Churchyard is one of the great 
resorts of London shoppers. It is not 
now really a churchyard, but is a street 
which runs entirely around the great 
church, and is filled with shops. Here 
we can stroll among the crowds of people on the 
sidewalk, and on one side look upon windows 

5 66 



filled with everything that any one would want to 
buy, and on the other side gaze up at the magnifi- 
cent cathedral which is the pride of London. 

It will interest us very much in going about Lon- 
don to meet with many streets and places which, 
although we now see them for the first time, seem 
to us like old acquaintances. From one corner of 
St. Paul's Churchyard is the lively street called 
Cheapside, from which John Gilpin started on his 
famous ride. 

From the front of St. Paul's runs the street called 
Ludgate Hill, just as busy as it can be, and crowded 

of the Lord Mayor. Even now, Queen Victoria 
does not pass the monument which stands in the 
place of the old Temple Bar without the formal 
consent of the Lord Mayor. 

Near this place rises the magnificent building 
recently erected for the London Law Courts. It 
covers a whole block, and, with its towers and tur- 
rets and peaked roofs, resembles a vast Norman 

We now find ourselves in that street, well 
known to readers of English books, called the 
Strand, where the shops, the people, and the 




rp r tM 


-4S^Mj fl iii i rf if ■ i „ 


with omnibuses, cabs, wagons, and people. A 
little farther on, this same street becomes Fleet 
Street, where we find many book shops and print- 
ing establishments, which always make us think of 
Dr. Johnson, because he was so fond of this street. 
Near it he wrote his great dictionary, and lived 
and died. At the end of Fleet Street used to 
stand Temple Bar, which was an archway across 
the street, ornamented with iron spikes on which 
the heads of executed traitors used to be stuck. 
This celebrated gateway was one of the en- 
trances to the city, and the King of England had 
no right to go through it unless he had permission 

omnibuses seem to increase in number. Here we 
shall see in the windows all manner of useful 
things; and, indeed, in our rambles through Lon- 
don we shall discover that, although there are 
many shop-windows filled with ornamental objects, 
the commodities offered for sale are generally 
things of real use, — to wear, to travel with, to eat, 
to read, or to make of some manner of use. In 
Paris there are many more beautiful objects, but 
they do not so much seem to be the things we 
really need. The Strand ends at Charing Cross, 
where we may see a model of an old-time cross 
which used to stand here. Charing Cross is one 

i88 7 .] 



of the great centers of London life. It seems as if 
most of the citizens make it their business to come 
here at least once a day. Several lines of omni- 
buses start from this point ; here are a great rail- 
way station and an immense hotel ; little streets 
and big streets run off in every direction ; cabs, 
men, boys, women, and wagons do the same thing ; 
and it would be almost impossible to cross from one 
side to the other, were it not for a little curbed 
space like an island in the middle of the street, on 
which we can rest when we get half way over, and 
wait for a chance to cross the other half of the 
street. Nearly all the crowded streets of London, 
as well as those of Paris, are provided with these 
little central refuges for foot-passengers. All the 
vehicles going up the street pass on one side of these 
islands, while those going down pass on the other ; 
so that we only have to look in one direction for 
horses' heads when we are actually in the street. 
But we must remember that in England the law 
obliges vehicles to keep to the left, while in France 
they turn to the right, as with us. 

Close to Charing Cross is Trafalgar Square, a 
fine open space with a fountain, and a column to 
Lord Nelson ; and facing this square we see the 
pillars and the portico of the National Gallery. 
The admirable collection of paintings in this build- 
ing is not nearly so large as those we have seen 
in Paris and Italy ; but it will greatly interest us 
in two ways. It will not only be refreshing to see 
pictures by English painters on English subjects, 
as well as many very fine paintings by Continental 
masters, but we shall be surprised, and very much 
pleased, continually to meet with the originals of 
engravings on steel and wood with which we have 
been familiar all our lives. Here are Landseer's 
dogs and horses, the children of Sir Joshua Rey- 
nolds and of Sir Thomas Lawrence, Wilkie's vil- 
lage scenes, and many other paintings which we 
shall recognize the moment our eyes fall upon them. 

Returning across Trafalgar Square, we con- 
tinue our walk, and find that the Strand is now 
changed into a broad street, called Whitehall, 
in which are situated many of the governmental 
and public offices, such as the Treasury, the War 
Office, and so on. One of these buildings belongs 
to the Horse Guards, a very fine body of English 
cavalry, and here we shall see something interest- 
ing. On each side of a broad gateway is a little 
house, or shed, with its front entirely open to the 
sidewalk ; and in each of these houses is a soldier 
on horseback. This soldier is dressed in a splen- 
did scarlet coat, a steel helmet with a long plume, 
and high-topped boots. The horse is coal-black, 
which is the regulation color of the Horse Guards' 
horses. The peculiarity of this pair of men and 
horses is that, while they are stationed here on 

guard, they never move ; the man sits as if he 
were carved in stone ; and although I have no 
doubt he winks, he does it so that nobody notices 
it, while the horse is almost as motionless as one 
of the bronze horses of St. Mark's in Venice. 
He neither switches his tail, nods his head, nor 
stamps his feet. He has been trained to do 
nothing but think while he stands in this little 
house, and that is all he does. Nearly all visitors 
to London come to see these two statue-like men 
and horses at the entrance to the Horse Guards. 
At certain hours these soldiers are relieved and 
their places supplied by others, and there is gener- 
ally a little crowd assembled to witness this ma- 
neuver. A tall sergeant comes out into the street, 
turns around, and faces the two horsemen. At his 
word of command, each soldier rides out of his 
little house, then they turn around squarely and 
ride toward each other, then they turn again, and 
side by side ride through the gate into the court- 
yard. It now appears as if they have works inside 
of them and are moved by machinery, so exactly 
do they keep time with each other in every motion. 
At the word of command they stop, each man lifts 
up his right leg, throws it over the back of his 
horse, and drops it to the ground so that the two 
boots tap the pavement at the same instant. Then 
each left foot is drawn from the stirrup, and each 
man stands up and leads away his horse, while 
two other guardsmen come out to take their places 
in the little houses, and stand motionless for a 

Continuing on our course, we find that White- 
hall is changed to Parliament street, and leads us 
to Westminster Abbey and the splendid Houses 
of Parliament, on the river bank. We all have 
heard so much of Westminster Abbey, that grand 
old burial-place of Englishmen of fame, that it will 
scarcely strike us as entirely novel ; but I doubt if 
any of us have formed an idea of the lofty beauty 
of its pillars and arched ceiling, and the extent 
and number of its recesses and chapels crowded 
with monuments and relics of the past. 

Of course, we shall go first to the Poets' Corner, 
where so many literary men lie buried, and where 
there are so many monuments to those who are 
buried elsewhere. Among these we shall be glad 
to see the bust of our own Longfellow, the only 
person not an Englishman who has a monument 
here. We shall spend hours in Westminster Ab- 
bey and in its chapels, where there are so many 
interesting memorials and tombs of old-time kings 
and queens, knights and crusaders ; and then, 
having made up our minds that on the very next 
Sunday we will come here to church, we shall go 
out of a side door into a queer little street, where, 
in a secluded corner, are some quaint little houses 

5 68 





with the names of " Mr. John This," and " Mr. 
Thomas That," and " Mr. George The-other- 
thing " on their front gates; and, after walking a 
short distance, we shall find ourselves at the en- 
trance to the Houses of Parliament. 

It is only on Saturdays that these great build- 
ings can be visited, and then we must have per- 
mits from the Lord Chamberlain, whose office is 
around a corner of the edifice. We can wander 

as we please through 
all the public parts 
of the building, for 
Parliament is never 
in session on Satur- 
days, and we shall 
see splendid and 
handsome halls and 
corridors, including 
the Queen's rob- 
ing-room, with her 
throne on one side 
of it, although she 
seldom or never sits 
there, and the mag- 
nificent House of 
Lords, with three 
thrones at one end 
of it, which were 
originally intended 
for the Queen, her 
husband, Prince Al- 
bert, and her oldest 
son, the Prince of 
Wales. There are 
many more halls 
and apartments, all 
magnificently fitted 
up and adorned with 
rich carvings and 
paintings, making 
this a wonderfully 
grand and imposing 
building. We shall 
be surprised, how- 
ever, when we see 
the room intended 
for the House of 
Commons, the real 
governing power of 
England. In these 
immense Houses of 
Parliament, cover- 
ing eight acres, and 
containing eleven 
hundred rooms and 
apartments, there is 
for the House of 
Commons only a room so small that, when all the 
members are present, there is not accommodation 
for them on the main floor, and many of them have 
to stow themselves away in the gallery o"r wherever 
they can find room. Adjoining this magnificent 
building, and now really a part of it, is the famous 
old Westminster Hall, a vast chamber capable of 
holding a dozen Houses of Commons. This great 
hall was built in its present form by Richard II. 



Here the English Parliament used to meet, and 
here state trials were held. Among the persons 
condemned to death in this room were Charles I., 
William Wallace, the Scotch hero, and Guy 
Faukes. The lofty roof, formed of dark oaken 
beams, is very peculiar, and in construction is one 
of the finest roofs of its 
kind in the world 

When we leave here, 
we shall go out on one 
of the bridges across the 
Thames, and get a view 
of the river front of the 
Houses of Parliament, 
with the great Victoria 
Tower at one end, and 
at the other the Clock 
Tower, with four clock 
faces, each of which is 
twenty-three feet in di- 
ameter ; so that people 
do not have to go very 
close to see what time it 
is. The large bell in 
this tower weighs thir- 
teen tons ; and it re- 
quires five hours to wind 
up the striking part of 
the clock. 

We are now in the 
western part of London, 
which is the fashionable 
quarter, where the lords 
and ladies, and the rich 
and grand people live, 
and where the shops are 
finer, the people better 
dressed, and where there 
are more private car- 
riages than business wag- 
ons. Among the fine 
streets here are Pall Mall 
(pronounced Pell Mell), 
where we see on either 
side of the street large 
and handsome buildings 
belonging to the Lon- 
don clubs : and Picca- 
dilly, full of grand shops, 
leading to the famous 
Hyde Park. London 
gentlemen consider a 
walk down Piccadilly one 
of the pleasantest things 
they can do, and there 
are people who think 
that there is not in the 

VOL. XIV.— 39. 

world a street so attractive as this. It is cer- 
tainly a pleasant promenade ; and for a great part 
of its length we have on one side the beautiful 
trees and grass of Green Park, at the farther side 
of which stands Buckingham Palace, the Queen's 
London residence. 





Hyde Park, with the adjoining Kensington Gar- 
dens, is a very large inclosure with drives, grassy 
lawns, and fine trees, and with a pretty river run- 
ning through it. Near Hyde Park Corner, where 
we enter, are some magnificent residences, among 
which is Apsley House, belonging to the Duke of 

is called the "London season." The carriages, 
which are generally open, with spirited horses, and 
liveried coachmen, some of whom wear powdered 
wigs, drive up one side of the roadway and down 
the other, keeping as close to one another as they 
can get, and forming a great moving mass, which 


Wellington. One of the roads in Hyde Park is 
called Rotten Row, and is devoted entirely to 
horseback riding. There is nothing decayed about 
this Row, and it is said that the place used to be 
called Route du Roi, the Road of the King, and 
it has gradually been corrupted into Rotten Row. 

There are many proper names which the English 
people pronounce very differently from the way in 
which they are spelled : St. John, for instance, is 
pronounced Singe-on, Beauchamp is Beecham ; 
and when they wish to mention the name Chol- 
mondeley, they say Chumley, while Sevenoaks has 
become Snooks. 

From twelve to two o'clock we may see Rotten 
Row filled with lady and gentlemen riders, trotting 
or galloping up and down. But the finest sight of 
Hyde Park begins about five o'clock in the after- 
noon, when the carriages of the nobility and gentry 
fill the long drive on the south side of the Park. 
There is no place in the world where we can see so 
many fine horses and carriages, so much fashion, so 
much wealth, and so much aristocracy, in a com- 
paratively small space, as in Hyde Park, between 
five and seven o'clock in the afternoon, during what 

it is very pleasant to gaze upon. Along the side- 
walks are long rows of chairs which can be hired, 
those with arms for four cents, and those without 
arms for two ; and on these it is the delight of the 
London people to sit and watch the show of hand- 
some equipages, beautiful dresses, and high-born 
faces. No cabs or public vehicles are allowed on 
this drive, which is entirely devoted to private 

When we go out of Hyde Park at its northeast 
corner, we enter Oxford street, a wide and busy 
thoroughfare, crowded with every kind of vehicle 
and all sorts of foot-passengers. Crossing this is 
Regent street, the most fashionable shopping- 
street in London, where we find the finest stores, 
and the handsomest displays in the windows. 
This street is very wide, and the houses on each 
side are nearly all of the same color, a pale yellow, 
and are probably painted every year to keep them 

We are now going back toward the city, and, 
continuing through the lively scenes of Oxford 
street, we perceive that after a time this great 
thoroughfare changes into High Holborn ; and 



we may remember what Thomas Hood had to say 
about a lost child in this street, when he wrote : 

" One day, as I was going by 
That part of Holborn christened High, 
I heard a loud and sudden cry 
That chilled my very blood." 

Then the street becomes Holborn Viaduct, 
where, for about a quarter of a mile, it is built up 
high across a deep depression in the city, making 
a level line of street where there used to be two 
steep hills. At one point there is a bridge where 
we can look over the railing and see portions of 
the city spread out below us. At one end of this 
viaduct is the old church of St. Sepulchre, where 
lies buried Captain John Smith, who, we will re- 
member, would probably have been buried in Vir- 
ginia, had it not been for the kindly intervention 
of Pocahontas. And at the other end is the famous 
prison of Newgate. Daniel Defoe, — author of Rob- 
inson Crusoe, — Jack Sheppard, and William Penn 
were imprisoned in Newgate ; but the building 

ing any hats, winter or summer, are frequently to 
be met with in the picture-galleries and other 
public places in London. It is now the intention 
of the managers of this school to move it into the 

In the very heart of the city, where we now are, 
stands the great Bank of England. This building, 
with one of its sides on Threadneedle street, 
covers about four acres, but is only one story high. 
It has no windows on the outside, through which 
thieves might get in from the street, and light and 
air are supplied by windows opening on inside courts. 
This is one of the richest banks in the world ; its 
vaults often contain as much as a hundred million 
dollars in gold, and every night a small detach- 
ment of soldiers from some regiment stationed in 
the city is quartered here to protect its treasures. 
Each of the men receives a small sum from the 
bank, and the officer in command is provided with 
a dinner for himself and any two friends he may- 
choose to invite. But at a certain hour the head- 



wggw BBM I 

has been a great deal altered since 
their times. The street here is called 
Newgate Street, and before very long 
it merges into Cheapside, and we 
find ourselves at the point from which we started. 
Not far from Newgate is a much more cheerful 
place, of which you all have read in St. NICHO- 
LAS. This is Christ's Hospital, the home of the 
Blue Coat Boys, who, with their long coats, knee- 
breeches, and yellow stockings, and never wear- 

WII»!i(:»iiJll!!!!Pfl|l(!!s!^;//«!|iPil|6j?f J!,i|f!'«;. Yj'fft:: ., '■:'' ''SV/^fif! 

watchman of the bank comes around with the 
great keys, to lock up the outer door with cere- 
monies that have been observed for generations, 
and the two friends must leave, whether they are 
ready to go or not. 

Opposite the Bank is the Mansion House, the 




stately edifice in which the Lord Mayor lives. 
Near by is the Royal Exchange, with a grand por- 
tico, and a tall tower, on the top of which is a great 


golden grasshopper, which some people may think 
is intended to mean that the money made by the 
hundreds and thousands of business-men who 
crowd here during certain hours will skip away 
from them if they are not careful ; in reality it is 
the crest of the original builder of the Exchange. 
In this neighborhood also is the General Post- 
Office, and the great Telegraph Building. 

A good deal farther eastward than these, and 
on the bank of the River Thames, which runs 

through London as the Seine does through Paris, 
stands the ancient and far-famed Tower of Lon- 
don. This is not by any means a single tower, 
but is a collection of strongly 
fortified buildings surrounded 
by a high and massive wall, 
and is a veritable castle, or for- 
tress, of the olden time, stand- 
ing here in the crowded and 
busy London of to-day. We 
shall wander for a long time 
through this gloomy old for- 
tress and prison, now used as 
an arsenal and barracks for 
soldiers. Most of the ancient 
buildings, towers, and walls are 
still just as they used to be. 
Here we shall see the Bloody 
Tower, in which the two princes 
were murdered by Richard I II. ; 
the great central White Tower, 
built by William the Conquer- 
or, and now containing a mu- 
seum of old-time armor and 
weapons, where we may also 
see many wooden figures of 
mounted men clad in the very 
armor worn longago by knights 
and kings. In another tower, 
the Beauchamp Tower, we 
shall enter the prison-chamber 
in which many of the great 
people of England were con- 
fined, and we can read the 
inscriptions written by them 
on the walls. In the corner of 
the inclosure is a little chapel, 
which differs from every other 
church, in containing the 
graves of so many famous be- 
headed people. Among these 
are Queen Anne Boleyn ; Lady 
Jane Grey, and her husband; 
Queen Elizabeth's friend, the 
Earl of Essex ; and others with 
whose names we are very fa- 
miliar in English history. If 
there had been no way of cutting off people's heads, 
or of otherwise putting an end to them, a great deal 
of the history of the world would never have been 
written. In another tower, where it is said Henry 
VI. was murdered, we shall see the crown jewels, 
or regalia, of England, which are here for safe- 
keeping. They are in a great glass case sur- 
rounded by a strong iron-barred cage, through 
which a thief, even if he could get over the Tower 
walls and through its guards, would find it hard 



to break. In this case \vc see golden crowns, 
scepters, swords, and crosses, covered with mag- 
nificent jewels of every kind, besides many other 
dazzling and costly objects. On Queen Victoria's 
state crown are no less than two thousand seven 
hundred and eighty-three diamonds, and in front 
is the great ruby, said to have belonged to the 
Black Prince, which Henry V., who liked to make 
a gorgeous appearance on great occasions, wore 
on his helmet at the battle of Agincourt. 

Standing about in various places in the Tower 
grounds we shall meet with 
some of the warders, called 
"beef-eaters, "which is anEng- 
lish corruption of the French 
buffetiers, or royal waiters. 
These men are dressed in medi- 
aeval costume, and carry tall 
halberds, or spears. In olden 
times, one of these was the 
headsman and bore a great axe. 

Not far from the Tower are 
the great London Docks, which 
are not upon the river, but are 
inland watcr-inclosures of more 
than a hundred acres in extent, 
surrounded by great ware- 
houses. In these docks three 
hundred large vessels can lie ; 
and in the warehouses, and in 
the immense vaults beneath 
them, are stored so vast quan- 
tities of goods, — tea, silks, to- 
bacco, coffee, sugar, wine, and 
everything that can be brought 
from foreign lands, — that there 
seems to be no end or limit to 
them. A visit to these docks 
as well as to the West India 
Docks, which are still larger, 
and to several others in this 
quarter of London, will help 
to give us an idea of the enor- 
mous commerce and wealth 
of the great metropolis. 

Among the sights of Lon- 
don is the British Museum, 
which is one of the most ex- 
tensive and valuable libraries 
and museums in the world. 
There are more than a million 
books here ; as well as collec- 
tions of Grecian, Assyrian, and 
Egyptian marbles, statuary, 
and inscriptions ; with curiosities, antique and 
modern ; and scientific and other interesting ob- 
jects, in number like the leaves upon a tree. If 

any of my companions wish to examine every 
object there is in the British Museum, they must 
give up the rest of London. 

Another collection, almost as large, and more 
interesting to many persons, is the South Ken- 
sington Museum. 

This museum is mostly devoted to objects 
of art, and contains both ancient and modern 
specimens of architecture, paintings, statues, 
beautiful pottery of every kind, and enough things 
worth looking at and studying to tire out the legs 


and brains of any human being who should try to 
see them all at one time. 

In Regent's Park, a large inclosure to the north 




of Hyde Park, are the Zoological Gardens, which 
are in many respects more interesting than those 
of Paris, and are very admirably arranged for the 
convenience both of the visitors and of the animals. 
Here the animals have more room to move about 
than is usual in menageries. There are elephants 
and camels which carry ladies and children up and 
down the grounds ; and we shall see some fine 

of him, dressed in the same kind of clothes he 
wears, is set up in this gallery, among the crowd 
of kings, queens, warriors, statesmen, and crim- 
inals already here. Here is a figure of Cobbett, 
the English politician, sitting upon one of the long 
benches placed for the accommodation of visitors. 
By means of machinery inside of him, his head 
every now and then moves quickly to one side, as 

i 1! hi:^r 



Bengal tigers, belonging to the Prince of Wales, 
in a great open-air inclosure so large that they 
almost seem to be at liberty, and they walk about 
and bound over trunks of trees as if they were in 
their Indian homes. At feeding-time, which is in 
the afternoon, this whole place is in a state of ram- 
page, the animals requiring no dinner-bell to let 
them know what time it is. 

Another interesting place, where the creatures 
require no food and are not at all dangerous, is 
Madame Tussaud's Wax-work Show. Here we 
shall see life-size figures of famous men and women 
from all parts of the world, — Richard the Lion- 
hearted, President Lincoln, Queen Elizabeth, Ceta- 
wayo, Gladstone, and Guiteau, and many other 
well-known people. Whenever a person does any- 
thing that makes him famous, a wax-portrait figure 

if he were looking around to see who is there. He 
is a large man, of benevolent appearance, wearing 
a broad-brimmed hat like a Quaker's, and it is con- 
sidered a very good joke when some visitor, think- 
ing him a real man, sits down by him, and is 
startled at the sudden turn of his head. This is 
a great London resort, for nearly everybody wants 
to know how eminent people look, and what kind 
of clothes they wear. 

We must also visit the great London markets, 
one of which, called Covent Garden, is devoted to 
vegetables, fruit, and flowers ; and these are 
brought in so vast numbers, and there are so 
lively scenes among the crowds of purchasers, that 
many strangers, who have no idea of buying, come 
here in the early mornings simply to witness the 
spectacle. There is also Smithfield Market, a build- 

i88 7 .; 




ing covering three and a half acres, with a garden city which eats so much fish can possibly want 

and fountain in the center, where we see exposed any meat. Leadenhall Market is given up en- 

for sale the meat of oxen, calves, hogs, and sheep, tirely to poultry and game ; while another of the 

In the Billingsgate Market we see fish in such many London markets is devoted in great part 

quantities that we can scarcely imagine how a to the sale of water-cresses. Near Smithfield 






Market is the old market-place where many 
famous persons were burned at the stake. 

While we are in this part of the town, we must 
stop for a time at the Guildhall, the ancient Town 
Hall of London, where there is a museum of 
curious things connected with old London, and 
where we may still see the queer wooden giants, 
Gog and Magog. 

Leaving the noisy city, and the crowded busi- 
ness portions of London, it is a great relief to 
take a hansom cab, open in front, with a driver 
sitting out of our sight behind, and to roll swiftly 
over the smooth streets of the West End, as it is 
called, where the rich and fashionable people live. 
Here we find a great many " squares," which are 
little inclosed parks with streets and dwelling- 
houses all around them ; and farther to the west 
we come to long streets and avenues, where the 
houses have front gardens, and often back gardens, 
and where everything is as quiet, and almost as 
rural, as in a country village. Here, if we do not 
know London, we may think that we are in the 
suburbs, and that we need not go far to get into 
the country ; but, if we turn up a side street, and 
go a block or two, we shall come upon a long, 
noisy business street, crowded with people, vehi- 
cles, and shops, and find ourselves in another of 
the great business quarters of London. To get 
out of London and London life is not easy, and 
after strolling for hours we still see London stretch- 
ing out before us, as if it would say, " Here I am, 
and if you want to see the end of me, you must 
walk a long, long way yet." 

There are many places outside of London to 
which we must certainly go, and one of these is 
the Crystal Palace. In this great glass building we 
may see miles of interesting things connected with 
architecture, art, and nature. Theatrical per- 
formances also are given here, and concerts, and 
sometimes grand shows of fireworks. 

Then there is Hampton Court, an old palace 
built by Cardinal Wolsey, with very beautiful 
grounds and garden, laid out in the old-fashioned 
style. There we may wander in the walks and 

under the trees where "bluff King Hal " and, 
later, Charles I. wandered with their courtiers. 

At Windsor Castle, the residence of Queen Vic- 
toria, we shall spend a day ; and, although the 
Queen may not be likely to ask us in, we shall see 
a great deal of the magnificent building in which 
the sovereigns of England, from as far back as 
Edward III., have lived. Those who have read in 
St. Nicholas Mrs. Oliphant's account of Windsor 
will be particularly interested here. 

Then we must go to Richmond, a charming 
village on the Thames, where all London people 
go, and where there is a beautiful park and 

We may also visit Greenwich, at longitude 
nothing, of which we have also read in our maga- 
zine, and go to the celebrated Kew Gardens, full 
of rare and beautiful trees and plants and flowers. 

The Victoria Embankment is a magnificent road- 
way extending along the banks of the Thames, from 
Blackfriars Bridge to Westminster Bridge, more 
than a mile. It is built over a low shore which 
used to be covered by water twice every day at 
high tide. This great work consists of a wide 
roadway with handsome walks on either side, and 
is shaded by trees and embellished with statues. In 
some places there are gardens on it, and here 
stands a handsome obelisk which was brought from 
Egypt. The Embankment cost ten millions of 
dollars, and under it are tunnels, through one of 
which runs one of the underground railways of 

On the other side of the river is another road- 
way of the same kind, not so long, called the 
Albert Embankment. The first of these is often 
called the Thames Embankment. 

And now, my dear boys and girls, do you sup- 
pose that we have seen all London ? You may 
have an idea of it, but I could take you about for 
a week or two more and show you interesting 
places and things which we have not yet seen. 
But we have done as much as we can at present ; 
and, strapping our valises and locking our trunks, 
we shall bid good-bye to great King London. 


By J. R. Eastwood. 

Our baby now is four months old, 
A bonnie boy, with hair like gold ; 
And his long clothes are put away- 
For Mother shortened him to-day. 

He has the loveliest of frocks, 
All trimmed with lace, and two pink socks 
That Father bought, the best by far 
And prettiest in the whole bazar. 



And now the rogue can kick about; 
His little feet go in and out 
As though they could not rest, and he 
Is just as happy as can be. 

Besides, he feels quite proud to-day 
With all his long clothes put away, 
And dressed so fine ! And then, you know, 
We praise the boy, and love him so ! 

His grandmamma must see him soon ; 
We all will go this afternoon, 
And take the pet, and stay for tea, — 
And what a riot there will be ! 

At first, perhaps, she may not know 
The baby, he has dwindled so ; 
But let her guess, and do not say 
That Mother shortened him to-day ! 

Tnere ujqs once cm .Absurd -AJhcmtbT" » 
\vho wanted to serve as head -waiter , 
.And was cn^eatry enracred. 
When tney said they d encraoed 
One whose outward attractions were Qreatrer*. 

Vol. XIV.— 40. 





By Robina S. Smith. 


Chapter I. 

A— RE you going to use those yellow 
pieces of paper Papa just gave 
to you, Mamma ? May I have 
one for my doll's dress? " 

"Not for your dollie, Flora; 
but you may look at them. They 
are tickets to a concert. Papa 
and I are going to Brunswick 

Flora turned the yellow tick- 
ets over and over. She thought 
of the one beautiful concert she 
had listened to the year before, 
when her father took her to town 
in the afternoon. She remem- 
bered the big drum, the men 
with red cheeks blowing the 
trumpets, and the man who rang 
the tiny bells. 

Flora was a very enthusiastic 
little girl over music. Many an 
evening, when the cool western 
breeze wafted the strains of music 
from the village band up to their 
little cottage on the hill-top, 
Flora would leave the circle of 
frolicking brothers and sisters, 
and climb upon the large stuffed box under the 
western window. Resting both elbows on the sill 
and her chin in her hands, she would listen with 
delight to the gay tunes. 

At the word "concert," a great many thoughts 
went through Flora's excited little brain. With 
bright eyes, and an earnest spot deepening on her 

forehead, she returned the tickets to her mother, 
and cried out : 

" Oh, may I go, too ? I will take a nap this 
afternoon, so as not to be sleepy ! " 

" Oh, no, Flora dear ! This will be in the night, 
and little eyes must be shut up tight then. Wait 
until you are older, then you may go. We must 
leave before supper ; but remember, this is sister 
Elizabeth's night to come home. You can help 
Lily set the table to welcome her." 

Just then, little Ben came running in from the 
lawn with his hands full of buttercups. He pulled 
at Flora's apron, and, holding a bunch of yellow 
blossoms under his rosy little chin, cried : 

" See me like butter ! Now you like butter ! " 

" Oh, what a yellow chin, Benny ! And is blue- 
eyed grass open, too ? Where did you find them ? " 

" Come and see ! " answered Ben, scampering 
off out the door. 

Flora, forgetful of her disappointment, ran after 
him ; and the two waded through the green field 
after the flowers, the tall grass reaching to Flora's 
belt, while the daisies and buttercups kissed little 
Ben's forehead, as, with arms stretched upward 
and stumbling little feet, he plowed through the 
grass in front of his sister. 

Elizabeth, who came home from the academy 
on Friday afternoons, arrived just at supper time. 
She was greeted with shouts of welcome, and 
the information that Papa and Mamma had gone 
to a concert. 

After supper, the children gathered around their 
sister on the doorstep. Friday evening was always 
a grand time with them. They followed Elizabeth 
about, wherever she went, to make up for lost time 
during the week. 

i88 7 .) 



" Now, who will get me some buttercups and 
daisies?" said Elizabeth. " Bring a whole bunch 
of them, and some of that fine, long grass, and I 
will make some pretty wreaths." 

The flowers were soon piled in her lap, and her 
ready fingers were weaving crowns for each little 
head. With eager eyes following the pretty work, 
the children were quiet for a while, till Flora 
spoke of the concert again. 

" Mamma says I can go when I get older." 

" So can I," chirped Ben. 

Fred and Lily said they did n't care for the con- 
cert. When they were older they were " going on 
a shipwreck," and " land on a desert island." 

" We have been playing it this afternoon, Eliz- 
abeth, and it 's splendid. We did n't have any- 
thing to eat on the island except a fish chowder." 

"You were very fortunate to get a fish chow- 
der ! " said Elizabeth, laughing. " Well, chil- 
dren, I don't want to wait till we are older, before 
we go to a concert. None of you are too young, 
except Ben." 

The children began to look pleased, yet mingled 
with their pleasure came a troubled look that 
Elizabeth should differ from Mamma. 

" Let 's go ! " cried Elizabeth. 

" Why, Elizabeth ! " they cried. 

"Oh, I don't mean Mamma's concert. Mine 
comes off in the morning." 

" Then we can go," shouted Flora. 

"Fred and I can't go," said Lily, " because we 
shall be in school then." 

" That will not make any difference. My con- 
cert comes early, before school begins." 

" But just see my old boots, Elizabeth ! They 
are all out at the toes, and Papa is n't going to 
bring my new copper-toed ones till Monday," said 

" That will not make any difference, either. You 
have to wear old boots at my concert. 'T would n't 
do at all to wear new boots in the hall." 

" 'Cause they 'd squeak ? " piped Ben, who was 
sitting down in the path, making a gravel "garden." 

"No, Ben," said his sister, placing one of her 
crowns upon his head. " But the boots would be 
all spoiled after going to one concert, and would 
never be new boots again." 

"That's funny!" said Flora. "How would 
they get spoiled ? " 

" The floor of the hall will be so very wet." 

"The floor wet!" 

" Yes, and you must wear old dresses, too. 
Nobody will see you." 

"Why, the people that sing — they will see us." 

"I hope not. They would be afraid and would 
not sing if they did," mysteriously answered Eliza- 

" Oh, sister Elizabeth, what kind of a concert 
are you going to take us to!" cried astonished 
Fred. " What a dirty hall it must be ! A con- 
cert in the morning, too, and such frightened sing- 
ers ! I don't believe I shall like it. Do you think 
1 will?" 

" Yes, indeed ! You '11 think it the greatest fun 
you ever had. It is the most beautiful hall you 
ever saw, Fred, if it is wet. The ceiling" is a faint 
sky-blue, with a rosy yellow border at the eastern 
side. There will be a shining lantern to-morrow 
morning, hung low from the ceiling. The walls 
are trimmed with fresh, budding evergreen boughs, 
and the air of the hall is scented with the perfume 
of flowers ! " 

"Just as our schoolroom was last year on the 
last day, when we all brought bunches of flowers 
to the teacher ! The whole room smelled of rose- 
petals and lilacs. Oh, how pretty it was ! " said Lily. 

"Where are the tickets, Elizabeth?" asked 

"Tickets? Oh, tickets ! Well, I have not bought 
them yet. In fact, it is a free concert. Anybody 
may go who will get up early enough. I think 
the only tickets required are a fresh face, bright 
eyes, sharp ears, and a quiet step ! " 

" I think there is something queer about it, but 
I think it is going to be nice, don't you, Fred?" 
said Lily. 

' ' May be so, " said Fred, not quite ready to com- 
mit himself. " What time must we get up ?" 

" We must get up from this doorstep now," said 
Elizabeth, rising and catching up Ben. "The 
dew has begun to fall, and Papa says that is the 
time to come in. As to the concert, you will have 
to be up at half-past two. I will go around and 
wake you up, because we must be out of the house 
at three, as the concert begins then." 

"It must be mosquitoes!" shouted Fred. He 
had been brooding in silence for the last five 
minutes over the mystery of his sister's concert. 
" That will not be any fun at all ! " 

"Why, Fred, how you frightened me!" said 
Flora, with a laugh. 

" Hush, Fred ! Don't say any more," whispered 
Elizabeth. " You are wrong. But don't guess 
again. Wait, and we will surprise the others." 

"I know!" said Lily. "When you said it 
began at three, that reminded me. It is better 
than mosquitoes, Fred." 

"Children, let 's clear the dining-room and 
have a game of blindman's-buff before bed-time," 
said Elizabeth, to divert the children's attention 
from guessing her secret. 

Away they flew to the dining-room, dragged 
the chairs, one after another, into the hall, pushed 
the table up between the windows, and had 

5 8o 



a grand scramble. When they all had taken 
their turns at being blindman, Elizabeth said, 
" Come, children, you must scamper to bed now. 
Benny, you come first." 

'• Sing my song to me, Lily, and then I will 
go," said a sleepy little voice. 

"What song does Benny mean, Lily?" asked 

"Oh," explained Flora, eagerly, "it 's a song 
that Lily made up all herself, while you were at 
school this week. She made it up one night when 
she was rocking Ben to sleep, when Mamma had 
a headache." 

So, taking Ben into her lap, Lily sang the good- 
night song. The others gathered around the 
rocking-chair in a circle, and enjoyed the simple 
words as much as Benny did, while Lily sang: 

" Pretty baby, little darling. 

Would you like to go to sleep, 
When the day is fading, fading, 
And the stars begin to peep? 

" When the little birds so pretty, 
In their nests shut up their eyes, 
When the bee has stopped his humming, 
And the moon is in the skies ? 

" When the fire-fly has lighted 
In the dark her cunning lamp, 
When the dew is softly falling, 

And the ground is cold and damp ? 

" Pretty darling, little precious. 
Would you like to go to sleep, 
When all things are resting, resting, 
And the stars begin to peep?" 

A half hour later the house was wrapped in 
quiet. A soft breeze stirred the leaves of the 
white birches. The roar of the distant falls mur- 
mured a deep undertone. The silvery moonlight 
was shining through the windows, and Elizabeth 
was quietly moving about, trying to mate the 
children's rubbers in the back entry. 

Later still, when the father and mother returned 
from the concert and walked up the path in the 
moonlight, they saw the old spoon in the gravel 
where Ben had been " gardening," and the bunches 
of withered flowers on the doorstep. Elizabeth 
greeted them with her plan for the morning, and 
received the merry rejoinder : 

" Remember, we have had our concert, and 
shall wish our morning nap undisturbed." 

— Now let us see what preparations are being 
made for the concert in the queer, damp hall of 
which Elizabeth had spoken. 

The members of the chorus are fast asleep among 
the green trees, with their heads tucked under 
their wings. There are our famous singers, the 
robins, with their coats of scarlet and brown ; 
there the flocks of little blackbirds, with their 
white aprons ; there are the sparrows, each the 
owner of an exquisite solo, expressly its own ; and 
somewhere in the most hidden recesses of the 
woods reposes the thrush, who sings as no Jenny 
Lind can sing. We can not even think of the thrush 
as sleeping like other birds, so distant and individ- 
ual does it seem. Even the black crow is pre- 
paring himself for the morning chorus ; while 
countless tiny wood-warblers, who have no need 
to rehearse their parts, are concealing, each in a 
soft little ball of feathers, the mystery of song. 

In a very silent way, other great preparations 
are going on. First of all, the dust and heat of 
the preceding day must be wafted away. For, 
when the new day comes, never seen before, no 
trace must be left in the air of any yesterday. 
Does a cool, calm breeze come up to cleanse and 
inspire the air ? How does it take place ? None 
can tell. Enough that there has been accom- 
plished the great work of wiping out the past and 
beginning all over again. 

Fresh perfumes, too, are prepared to greet the 
new day ; while, poised in the eastern sky, the 
morning star hails the dawn. And what fairy has 
been around to every single tree, bush, leaf, and 
grass-blade, freshened it with water, and adorned 
it with precious jewels ? Every strawberry vine 
has a pearl for each point on its leaves. The 
morning-glory, too, that flower which can never 
have seen a yesterday, is unfolding. Surely the 
new day is here ! 

Chapter II. 

At about a quarter of three, the house by the 
woods was full of suppressed excitement. The 
children, in their endeavor not to wake their 
father, mother and Ben, and at the same time to 
be sure to make one another hear, talked in loud, 
rasping whispers that made Elizabeth nervous. 
Fred's old boots made such a racket that his 
sister told him to go about in stocking-feet till 
they were out of the house. Lily and Flora got 
into such a gale of laughter trying not to make 
a noise and walking on tiptoes, that they finally 
adjourned to the kitchen and shut the door after 

Fred looked like a scarecrow , and Lily, who 
always tried to be like Fred, said she looked 
entirely too neat, and wished she had some 
more ragged things to put on. As they rushed 
out of the door, glad to be able to talk " out 

i88 7 .] 



loud," Lily caught her apron on the latch and 
tore a great rent in it. 

" Now, Lily, you ought to be satisfied," they 
cried with a merry laugh. 

From Lily's and Fred's hints, Flora had now 
found out what sort of a concert they were going to. 

"Oh, that must be the lantern !" cried Flora, 
as they stepped out of doors and faced the morn- 
ing planet. 

A few minutes' walk brought them across the 
fields and to the entrance of the woods. Seated 
on a moss-covered log, Elizabeth told the children 
that they must keep perfectly still for a while, so as 
not to miss the first notes. To their listening ears 
came up from the village a faint " cuck, cuck, 
cuck-a-row-w." Still fainter from a distant farm- 
house came the answer, " cuck, cuck, cuck-a- 
row-w," and from outlying farms, one cock after 
another took up the cry. 

" Must we call that part of our concert ? " whis- 
pered Flora. 

" Certainly, Flora, that is a part of the concert. 
I like to hear it. We can call it the prelude. 
Now, hark ! Over there in the marshes, what do 
you hear ? " 

" Frogs ! " cried the children. " Oh, they sing, 
too ! " 

" Dong, dong, dong," sounded the village clock. 

"There; it 's three o'clock," said Fred. "You 
said the concert would begin promptly. Where 
is it?" 

Scarcely were the words out of his mouth, when 
a sleepy voice came up from the hedge : 

"See, see, see; violets, violets, violets." 

At the first notes of the " violet-bird," as the 
children called it (because it always came with the 
earliest violets), Elizabeth put out a warning hand 
to keep the children still, as they all involuntarily 
began to jump up with excitement. 

" Why, how do they know the time ? " said 
Flora, in astonishment. 

" That 's the chief solo-singer of the concert, 
children," said Elizabeth; "our yellow-headed 

" There 's the robin waking up, too," whispered 
the voices, as the robin's " rain-song " filled the 
air. Then followed a quick, troubled note from 
another robin, as if waked too early from its 

And now, another sparrow from the grove calls 
out, " See, see — oh, see, see ! " and leaves the re- 
frain unfinished, while from the hedge comes the 
response in full, " See, see, see ; violets, violets, 
violets ! " 

Just above their heads a little blackbird, with its 
white breast and bright little eye, woke up and 
shook its sleepy feathers. Then, flying to the top 

of the tree, it poured forth a melodious trill. It 
was carried through unbroken to the end. No 
woman on the stage can ever hope to attain to 
such richness and perfection. 

One tiny warbler, elate with happiness, could 
only sing, "Oh, sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet, 
sweet ! " the syllables running over each other in 
rapid succession. 

" The crow does not seem to join in the chorus, 
does he, Elizabeth?" said Lily. "He does not 
get up so early as the rest of us." 

By way of answer, Lily heard a sleepy, hoarse 
"What! what! what!" from the spruce- trees, 
and then an indignant chorus of "Hark! hark! 
hark ! caw ! caw ! " 

Lily laughed heartily. 

" Oh, that woke the crow up ! He did n't like 
to be thought a lazy bird." 

In a short time, the different songs were all 
mingled into one grand chorus. Each bird had 
its own peculiar melody ; each sang as if uncon- 
scious of any other member of the chorus ; yet the 
whole was in perfect harmony. There was no dis- 
cordant note. Even the hoarse caw, caw, of the 
crow only added a rich bass to the soprano and 
the tenor singers. Robin-redbreast's part was the 
most prominent. Yet, always strong and clear 
from the grove, one sparrow gave the watch-cry, 
"See, see, see," and from the hedge came the 
news of " violets, violets, violets ! " 

"Listen very carefully," said Elizabeth, "and 
when robin pauses a minute to take breath, you 
will hear our sweet thrush." 

" Oh, there it is ! How far off it sounds ! " 
said Flora. "And there are our swallows," she 
added, pointing to the familiar birds as they flew 
in low, waving circles, uttering their peculiar 

" Oh, what birds are these ? " cried Lily. " They 
flew right by my head, two of them ! What are 
they ? " 

"Those are bats," said Elizabeth. " See, they 
are getting ready to go to sleep. They have had 
their day, and now are ready to say good-night." 

A short while before four, the grand chorus 
broke up. The birds were seen flying down to the 
ground and picking up their breakfast. One gay 
little chorister flew to a branch just beside the 
children, and, not noticing them, flew down on 
the grass and found a breakfast ready for the taking. 

The bright yellow-birds with their somber mates 
were exulting over their treasure of dandelion 
seeds. With a quick flutter the little birds would 
fly upon the stems of the dandelion and bring 
the airy head of seeds within reach. Gayly flit- 
ting from tree to tree, they would call out with 
a bewitching little intonation, " Phoe-be-e, Phoe- 




be-e," with a rising inflection on the last syllable. 
Just the turn in the accent and pitch of the notes 
gives a whole world of difference between this 
cry to " Phoebe " and the plaint- 
ive "Phoe-bee, Phoe-bee" of 
our chickadee. The one seems 
like the playful chuckle of a little child, 
calling merrily, " Phoe-be-e, oh, come 
see-e ; " the other a solemn, sweet call, 
so full of pathos that we wonder how it 
can come from the chickadee, whose most 
familiar note seems fullof good cheer and happiness. 

The distant song of the thrush was still heard 
in the woods. Elizabeth proposed that they scat- 
ter quietly to see who could find the thrush and 
watch her as she sang. 

Flora wandered off among the pine-trees. The 
soft, brown needles underfoot muffled her light 
tread. Nearer and still nearer she approached 
that hidden fountain of song, till she could fix its 
position on the top of a dark tree, the crest of 
which alone was bathed with the rosy dawn. 

Stopping at a short distance from the foot of 
the tree, where she could easily look up to the 
thrush, Flora soon forgot everything and every- 
body else. Poised on the tapering point of the 
tree, the bird raised its head, and from its quiver- 
ing throat poured forth its morning song. The 
three variations followed one another after the 
required intervals. Again and again the rich 
cadences fell on Flora's ear. Never before had 
she been so near the heart of the bird ! How dif- 
ferently it sang from the other songsters ! There 
was no hasty flitting from branch to branch during 
the silent intervals. The thrush seemed to have 
banished all other thoughts, and with gaze fixed 
on the morning blue, with nothing between itself 
and the over-arching heavens, opened its soul in 
sad, sweet melody. 

Flora almost held her breath when, a few 
moments later, the bird ceased to sing, and flew 
softly downward among the low trees and then 
lit on the pine-needles at her feet. With so much 
grace and quiet it came to the ground, that it 
seemed more like the wafting of a feather to the 
earth than the descent of a bird. 

Everything seemed to respect the thrush's love 
of concealment. The very pine-leaves just matched 
its brown back, and the gray mosses made in- 
conspicuous its spotted breast. The bright eyes 
scanned Flora carefully, but, hidden behind a 
protecting fence, she passed for a shadow. 

" You dear little bird ! What were you saying 
up there against the sky?" whispered Flora, half 
to herself and half to the bird. " Oh, if the others 
could only see ! " 

A rustle in the bushes and a sharp " oh ! " caused 

the thrush to flit quietly away as Lily made her ap- 
pearance. The two girls, after relating their suc- 
cess to each other, went off and joined the others. 

"Just see my boots ! " said Lily, looking down 
at her wet feet. 

" And mine, too," echoed Flora. 
"And my dress ! It is wet two inches 
deep with dew ! " 

"Come," /' 

said Elizabeth rising. / 
" Let us go in now, and 
put on our dry clothes and 
try to get a nap before 
breakfast. The birds have 
finished theirs long ago." 

The breakfast table was 
made animated by the ex- 
cited talk of the children. 
They were full of the cho- 
rus, and of how near they 
came to the birds, how 
many they heard, and 
who saw the thrush while 
it was singing. 

"Papa and Mamma 
don't talk much about 
their concert, "said Flora. 
"I don't believe it was so 
nice as ours, after all." 

" You don't give us 
any chance to talk ! " 
laughed Papa. 

"I 'm not sure," said Mamma, "but you children 
did get the best of it; because Papa and I came 
home last night full of criticisms on what we heard, 
but you have not. been critics at all." 

" No, indeed ! How could we criticise, Mamma ? 
Every song was perfect." 

" I can criticise one singer," said Lily, laughing. 
" He was very disagreeable because he came so near 
when he sang. He went almost into my ear just as 
I was finding the thrush ! I was walking along, 
gazing up at the trees and following the song, 
when a mosquito flew at me and bit me so hard 

i88 7 .] 



that I screamed right out, and the thrush flew 

" Yes," said Flora, " that was my thrush." 
" Well, does this happen every morning, Eliz- 
abeth, when we don't get up ? " said Lily. 

" Yes; every morning at this season of the year." 
" But who go to the chorus when we don't ? " 
"Very few, I think, know anything about it, or 
care for it. I think the damp hall deters most 

" Oh, Elizabeth, now we know what you meant 
by the damp hall ! " said Fred. " When you first 
said it, I kept thinking of the way the floor looks 
on washing-day ! " 

"May n't we go to-morrow morning again? 
May n't Elizabeth wake us up ? " asked Lily. 

"No," said Papa. "The morning chorus is 
free to all, but hereafter it must be kept in re- 
serve for those who ' shake drowsy sleep from off 
their eyes,' without being waked by anybody. If 
you wake of your own accord, you may go any 

As a natural consequence of waking up at half- 
past two, the children slept unusually late the next 
day. But the concert was as great a success as on 
the previous morning, although the feathered 
choristers sang not to the children's ears. 

The children made out the following 


p RFI ImF C Koosters crowing in the village 

\ Frogs in the marshes. 
(Clock strikes three.) 
First Solo, Violet-bird. 
Second Solo, Robin-redbreast. 
Third Solo, Wood-thrush. 

- Robin-redbreast (leader). 




Crow (bass). 


Purple finch. 
. Oriole. 
Fourth Solo, Swallow. 
Fifth Solo, Chickadee. 

Finale. Alternate Solos \ J,]"™* 1 ]"- , 
I Violet-bird. 

fClock strikes four. Audience and singers disperse for breakfast. 1 

Fi'll Chorus 

(At intervals, the sad 
music of the Hermit- 
thrush is heard from 
the pine-woods.) 

(Exit Robin-redbreast.) 

gg ' ^ 




By Frances Courtenay Baylor. 

Chapter VIII. 

A MORE cool, lovely, fragrant spot than the 
Canon of Roses in the dewy hush of early morn- 
ing one could hardly find the world over; and a 
joyous awakening was that of the children. The 
river alone was full of attractions for both. They 
walked beside it for some distance; swam across it, 
wandered on the other side until they were tired, 
and then returned to that on which they had 
camped, at a shallow spot where some white light 
was imprisoned even at that early hour, although 
all the stream was clouded, overshadowed like a 
mountain-tarn, giving out only steely-bluish, black- 
ish surfaces as it rippled musically, eddied gently, 
or rushed boldly away in the soft gloom of the 
canon. It was the coolest, quietest river imagin- 
able at its brightest and noisiest, — reflecting at 
midday, in a distant fashion, the strip of sky over- 
head, or, perhaps, some great white-cloud Alp, 
as a metal mirror might have done. When the 
children had finished dashing the water up into 
each other's faces, to their mutual delight, and 
had tired of juggling with the beautifully-colored 
pebbles that abounded, they threw themselves 
back on the grass and stared up at the sky, and 
went on laughing and talking gleefully, until a 
little rustle in the bushes near them attracted 
their attention and sent them up into a sitting 
posture at once. Juan was alarmed, for he had 
thoughtlessly left his bow at the camp ; but he 
had no need to be frightened, for now came a 
plaintive bleat, bleat, bleat, and out came the 
little fawn they had spared the evening before. 
It was alone, and was still wandering about in an 
aimless, anxious way, trying to find out what had 
become of its family and friends. It had strayed 
down to the river to seek them, and coming upon the 
children, stopped and looked at them in a gentle, 
timid fashion, as if to say, "Could you, would you 
tell me, if you please, where my mother is ? I am so 
tired, and I have looked everywhere. I don't know 
what to do or where to go, — I don't, indeed ! " 

" Oh ! if I only had my bow ! " said Juan. 
" We need another bag, and the skin of this 
fawn would make a splendid one, quite as big as 
the one Shaneco keeps bears' oil in. What was 
I thinking of to come away without my bow ? I 
tell you what ! Suppose we drive it very gently 
to our camp, and kill it there. You can do it, if 
you like. But you must take good aim, and shoot 

at the throat so as not to spoil the skin. I '11 dress 
it afterward and then make the bag." 

"Oh, poor little thing! Let us not kill it, 
Juan," said Nita. "It looks so helpless and 
frightened ! Let us keep it for a pet." 

" Why, what nonsense !" he exclaimed. "Of 
course I shall kill it. But come on, I am hungry. 
I want my breakfast." 

Together they managed to make the fawn take 
the direction of the camp. But the longer Nita 
saw it and watched its graceful movements, as it 
trotted or bounded before them, the more pleased 
she was with its slender legs, its comical apology 
for a tail, its pretty coat, and the soft brilliancy of 
its eyes. Every moment she grew more deter- 
mined to keep it. " It is such a dear little thing ! 
I must have it ; but how can I prevent Juan from 
killing it ? " she thought. When they came near 
the camp, he bade her run and fetch her bow or 
his; but she was ready with an excuse — the fawn 
would not stray ; it would stay in the neighbor- 
hood ; why not wait until after breakfast ? This 
seemed reasonable enough, and Juan consented to 
postpone the shooting. A very hearty breakfast 
put him in a good humor; and, indisposed to exert 
himself at all, he sat down on the river bank with 
Nita and spent an hour there in idleness. 

"By the bye, we will get that fawn now," he 
said at last. He strung his bow energetically, as he 
thought of the bag he coveted, and started off, 
Nita following; while Amigo stopped to finish 
gnawing at his breakfast of bones. When they 
neared the little creature, Nita mustered up her 
courage and began to plead for its life. 

" Don't kill it, Juan, please! I like it. Let me 
have it. You can get another. There are plenty 
about here. I want it. Do let me keep it, won't you? 
I want to keep this one and tame it. May I not?" 

Juan did not at all approve of such a course ; but 
Nita was so eager and so much in earnest, that, to 
please her, he finally put his arrow back into the 
quiver. "It will die, anyhow," he said; "what 
is the use of ? Well, I will wait." 

Somehow the fawn reminded Nita of her own 
feelings when she had been taken from her mother, 
and it appealed strongly to her heart. She had 
always been fond of pets, too ; and had often 
wished vainly for a fawn. Dead deer of all ages 
had been plentiful enough in the Comanche camp, 
but here was a living fawn, so interesting and 
beautiful a little creature, stepping so daintily, 

i88 7 .] 



nibbling so prettily, gamboling so playfully — 
" No, no ! It must not be killed ! " she decided ; 
and having constituted herself its protector, she 
thought about it a great deal, as she lay down for 
her nap, and loved it more and more. 

Juan took a good look at the meat he was dry- 


ing, shifted the pieces about briskly on the poles, 
made Amigo mount guard over the whole, — much 
against his dogship's will, — and then he, too, in- 
dulged in a nap. Nita woke first and went in 
search of her little fawn. It was not far away. 
Tired out by the wanderings and misfortunes of 
the night and day, it was fast asleep when she caught 
sight of it, and looked prettier than ever, curled up 
gracefully among some bushes near the river. 

VOL. XIV. — 41. 

She sat down very near it, and then and there 
inaugurated her system of taming wild animals, 
which, simple as it was, could not have been sur- 
passed by the celebrated Mr. Rarey. The animal 
before her was neither very wild nor very vicious, 
it is true, and her method may broadly be said to 
have consisted in doing 
nothing at all. Nita was 
quite half a wild little 
thing herself, and per- 
haps she knew instinct- 
ively how to woo other 
woodlings, and to teach 
them to trust her. Cer- 
tain it is that she waited 
quietly until the fawn 
opened its eyes, looked 
at it quietly, paid no at- 
tention to its little snort 
of fear, watched it bound 
a few feet away, then 
slowly crept closer and 
closer until at last she 
actually managed to get 
her hands on the shy 
creature and give it a 
caress or two. After this 
she walked back to camp 
as pleased as possible, and 
told Juan that he should 
not touch her little "Es- 
trella," as she called the 
new pet. She inspected 
the four hams hanging up 
in the tree, watched Juan 
give another turn to the 
strips on the scaffold, took 
a look at the hides, and 
then her brother an- 
nounced that he was go- 
ing hunting. 

"What 's that for, when 
we have all this ? " asked 
Nita, who was so accus- 
tomed to living from hand 
to mouth, that she felt as 
if they had a wealth of 
eatables already. 
" Oh, I mean to keep the venison for our jour- 
ney ; yes, and kill more, and dry it, so it will take 
up as little space as possible. We won't touch 
that unless we are forced to," he replied. 

The children supped heartily that evening on 
a fat fawn which Juan brought back as the re- 
sult of his hunting trip. He had secured it just as 
night was falling, on the other side of the river. 
Nita looked on with bright interest while he 

5 86 



skillfully cut and stripped off the hide so as to 
make no holes in it, beginning at the throat. The 
fawn had previously been hung up by its neck so 
that Juan could get at it easily ; and when he had 
placed the meat over the fire to dry, he carried 
the hide off, sought and found a hole in the rock, 
put the hide in it, filled it up with ashes and 
water, and came back to camp again. Nita was 
extremely curious to see and know what he was 

"What have you done with it?" she said. 
" What do you want with ashes and water ? You 
surely are n't going to pour those on the hide. 
You will ruin it." 

To this Juan made no reply except to look very 
important, and put her off with, " You will see." 

The first thing Juan did next morning was to 
have a look at the fawn-skin ; and finding that it 
had not been in the ashes long enough for the 
hair to slip off, he determined to leave it where it 
was, in the tannery he had improvised overnight. 
At breakfast, Juanita said to him, "Don't forget 
that Amigo has to take his share of our load when 
we leave here. He can't be a lazy dog when there 
is so much to carry. You and I won't be able to 
take it all, and I know he can help." 

" Yes ; that was a splendid idea of yours, and I 
am going to shoot a wolf on purpose to make a 
pack-saddle of the skin," Juan replied. 

He was very impatient to begin the work he 
had marked out for himself, but it could not be 
done that day ; so he had to content himself with 
other employments and amusements, of which 
there was no lack. The most interesting one was 
shooting two more turkeys, which afforded them not 
only a great deal of fun, but a nice dinner. Any- 
body could have told that Juan's heart was in the 
work he had planned, for he was up at dawn next 
day, and was so full of energy that he paid no 
attention to Nita's sleepy remonstrance, " Don't 
go yet, Juan. It is not light enough to see." 

" Oh, I can't wait for the sun to get here ! " he 
answered impatiently, and ran off to the " tan- 
nery." He soon had the fawn-skin out, shook it 
thoroughly, and putting it on a tree that had 
grown in such a way as to present an inclined 
plane that exactly served his purpose, he went 
busily to work. When Nita joined him, he was 
rubbing away with intense vigor, singing as he 
bent over the skin, so absorbed in what he was 
doing that he started when she spoke to him. She 
offered to help, and looked on with vivid curiosity, 
as Juan swept up and down the skin with a deer- 
rib and skillfully removed the hair. She chattered 
to him all the while and plied him with questions ; 
but he only continued to sing and to work. 

"Now, then," he said, at last, when the skin 

was all clean and smooth, "you can run back to 
camp and bring me all the turkey-fat there is." 

Full of admiration of Juan's talent and ingenu- 
ity, Nita cheerfully obeyed ; and, as a reward, was 
allowed to take a turn at rubbing the fat into the 
skin when Juan's arms and muscles gave out. 
When it was thoroughly soaked with the fat, and 
had been rubbed until it seemed a wonder that 
there was anything left of it, they took it up be- 
tween them and bore it proudly back to camp, and 
propped it up in front of the fire to dry. They 
then breakfasted on cold turkey ; and, as they 
munched away, discussed their plans. 

" As soon as I have time, I shall begin Amigo's 
pack-saddle, for we shall have to accustom him 
gradually to wearing it. Don't you interfere, Nita. 
I '11 bring him to terms ! " said Juan. " You can 
just amuse yourself with your fawn. How tame it 
is already ! It joins the deer that come in to 
water every night. I wonder it has n't gone off 
with them. What was the use of taking it for a 
pet, anyhow ? We shall not be here longer than a 
week, and then you will have to leave it." 

" But I won't leave it ! I am not going to leave 
my little Estrella behind me ! " replied Nita pet- 
tishly. " I like it better than any pet I ever had, 
and I mean to take it with me." 

"All right; only I will kill it first," said Juan. 

" You shan't kill it at all ! " said Nita. " It is 
mine ! I won't have it killed ! And we are not 
going away in a week ; we are going to stay a 
month ! You said so yourself." 

"Oh! that was when I first came and I was 
tired. I am going just as soon as I am ready," 
said Juan. 

" But I am not going till / am ready ! " re- 
torted Nita. 

" You are going whenever I see fit to take you," 
said Juan provokingly. "I am a warrior, and I 
know best, and you must do as I say. You are 
nothing but a child, and you will never be any- 
thing but a squaw. We are going in a week, and 
I shall kill your fawn whenever I choose." 

Then followed a stormy moment, filled with " I 
shalls" and " I shan'ts," " I wills " and " I won'ts," 
which worked the quarrel up to its height. Never 
had they had such a disagreement, and their 
hearts were so full of angry and wicked feelings, 
that even the lovely Canon of Roses became all at 
once an ugly and dreadful place. 

" I will kill it now," said Juan passionately, start- 
ing up and seizing his bow. 

"You shan't touch it!" shrieked Nita. Both 
children ran as fast as they could to where Estrella 
was peacefully grazing in ignorance of what was 
going on. Quick as thought, Nita rushed up to the 
fawn. Quicker still, Juan fitted an arrow and let 

i88 7 .] 



it drive — but not into the fawn. Nita had thrown 
her arms around her little pet's neck, and whiz 
went the arrow into the fleshy part of her left 
arm. She gave a shriek and tumbled down as if 

Juan was dreadfully frightened. His anger 
cooled at once and was replaced by alarm and 
regret. He ran forward, startling the fawn, which 
bounded away a short distance and looked back at 
the children, quite unconscious of its narrow escape. 
Passionately Juan assured Nita that he had not 
meant to hurt her. He whipped out his knife, cut 
off the point of the arrow, sacrificing it without a 
thought, drew it out with one swift motion, and 
in a twinkling had bound up the wound with 

had wandered off a little way and seemed to be 
looking at them in mild rebuke. 

The truth was that Juan had been growing more 
and more proud and overbearing of late. He had 
convinced himself that he was a very remarkable 
boy, indeed; infinitely superior not only to Nita 
but to everybody. And this conviction had led him 
to treat his sister with a certain contempt which 
she had felt, but not resented. He saw his 
mistake, now ; and as they walked back to camp, 
he was so kind and tender, so humble, and so like 
his own old self, that Nita's love and confidence 
revived tenfold. Nor was this the only good result 
that flowed from the quarrel. The remembrance 
of the lengths to which his anger had carried him 


more skill and gentleness than could have been 
expected. So eager was he, so humble, so peni- 
tent, that Nita could not long remain estranged 
and unforgiving. Realizing, as they did, that 
they both had been in fault, no sooner did one 
begin to take all the blame for what had happened, 
than the other, too, assumed it ; and never had their 
hearts been more united than when they finally 
embraced each other, after half an hour of sighs 
and tears, excuses, explanations, and confessions. 
Juan's generous nature was especially moved, 
and he ardently longed to make every possible 
reparation. He could not sufficiently accuse him- 
self; and as to Estrella, he conceded everything. 
He would catch and tame several fawns for Nita, 
if she liked ; he would do anything, agree to any- 
thing, that would make her happy. Meanwhile, 
the innocent cause of the well-nigh tragic dispute 

kept Juan on his guard against giving way to his 
temper, and taught him to curb his passionate 
nature. As for Nita, she asked nothing better 
than to live in love and peace with Juan. 

In this way another member was added to the 
party in the canon, and for the remainder of their 
stay, Estrella was as much at home in the camp as 
was Amigo. There never was a prettier or gentler 
little creature. It became wonderfully tame, and 
would follow Nita about, as if it had been a pet 
lamb, up the valley, down the valley, across the 
river, wherever that active young mistress chose 
to rove ; it would eat from her hand and rub 
against her, cat-fashion ; it seemed to her to have 
every delightful quality that a pet could have, and 
she was never tired of caressing it. It is certain 
that she never would have given it up of her own 

5 88 



Estrella finally settled it once for all. She took 
her future into her own hands, or, rather, hoofs ; 
and one night, when the children were fast asleep, 
and the crescent moon was peering over the edge 
of the cliff with one horn well down to see if those 
could possibly be the two little Mexicans that had 
escaped from the Comanches, the little fawn 
trotted off down the river-bank, plashed into the 
water, and joined a certain benevolent doe that 
frequented the canon. We have nothing to do 
with the interview between them. It was not 
their first ; and Estrella's comical little tail wagged 

a great deal while it lasted, perhaps from satisfac- 
tion at finding herself an adopted child. An hour 
later she might have been seen leaping up a well- 
known trail, in the wake of her foster-mother and 
beautiful young foster-brother. 

The party took their way to the plateau above, 
and so on out into the hills, where, all unmindful 
of the affection, sacrifices, and distress of the 
mistress she had abandoned, the happy, if un- 
grateful, fawn went back to that state of nature 
which for her and all her tribe is emphatically a 
state of grace as well. 

(To be continued.) 


By George Cooper. 

O HAPPY birds among the boughs, 
And silver, tinkling brook below ! 
Why are you glad, 
Though skies look sad? 
" Ah, why? And would you know?" 

A pleasant song to me replied ; 
" For some one else we sing, 

And that is why the woodlands wide 
With rapture 'round us ring ! " 

O daisies crowding all the fields, 

And twinkling grass, and buds that grow ! 
Each glance you greet 
With smiles, so sweet ! 
" And why — ah ! would you know?" 
Their beauty to my heart replied ; 
" For some one else we live ; 

And nothing in the world so wide 
Is sweeter than to give ! " 


- gyJPF 






By George I. Putnam. 

Chapter IV. 


On the 28th of August, the second class, which 
had been on furlough all summer, returned ; 
camp was broken, and barrack life began for the 
plebes. Tents were lowered, and the entire corps 
marched across the plain to barracks in a pouring 
rain. Rooms were chosen by classes ; the first 
class having the first choice, and the fourth class 
contenting itself with rooms on the fourth floor — 
the " cockloft" — or else on the ground floor. 

Fred and Craw chose a room in the second 
division ; and they found it not a whit more com- 
fortable than the barrack rooms in which they had 
lodged on their arrival. Nothing in the way of 
ornament was allowed in the room ; but the white- 
washed walls and the bare floor were with them 
constantly, and everything was required to be 
kept in perfect order and scrupulously clean. The 
bedding had to be kept piled in a certain manner, 
the different articles of apparel were required to 
be hung on certain hooks, and the articles on the 
shelves were laid and filed with mathematical pre- 
cision. Each morning the rooms were inspected 
by the lieutenants in charge of companies, and 
any variation from regulations in the arrange- 
ment of the rooms and any litter or untidiness were 
promptly reported. Each occupant of a room was 
detailed as room-orderly for a week at a time, and 
during that week was responsible for the condition 
of the room ; and all reports against the room 
were to the orderly's discredit. 

It came to be a favorite habit with the lieutenant 
in command of "A" company to walk into Fred's 
room of a morning and run his finger along the 
mantel in a search of dust. His search was often 
successful, and remarking, "Dust on your man- 
tel, Mr. Arden !" he would walk out again. And 
at the next publication of delinquencies would be 
heard : 

"Arden, dust on mantel at A. M. inspection"; 
the penalty being two demerits. 

— The demerit and punishment system is the 
means by which discipline is enforced. All viola- 
tions of order which the cadet may have committed 
are reported against him, if noticed by the cadet 
officers whose duty compels them to take action 
upon it, or by officers of the army; and every even- 
ing, immediately after parade, the cadet adjutant 

reads from the delinquency book the list of those 
reports that have been made during the preceding 
twenty-four hours. Cadets have the privilege of 
submitting to the Commandant written explana- 
tions of all such reports ; and if an explanation 
is satisfactory, the report is quashed. Otherwise, 
the report is registered against the delinquent, 
and a certain number of demerits, varying from 
one to ten, according to the magnitude of the 
offense, is placed against his name. Thus, for a 
serious offense, like sitting down while posted as a 
sentinel, or for disobedience of orders, the number 
of demerits would be eight or ten ; while for being 
late at "formation," or for some such slight mis- 
demeanor, one demerit would be given. The 
limit for the demerits is fixed at one hundred from 
January to June, and one hundred and twenty-five 
from June to January. If this limit is exceeded, 
dismissal follows as surely as though the offender 
had been declared deficient in mathematics or 
philosophy. But the limit is ample, and, by even 
slight attention to regulations, there is no neces- 
sity for exceeding it or even for approaching it. 

In addition to the demerits, which affect the 
class standing of the cadet, other punishment is 
generally awarded, such as confinement to room 
or in light prison, or the walking of tours of extra 
duty on Saturday afternoons, equipped as a senti- 
nel. For very grave offenses, cadets are liable to 
suspension for a year, or even to expulsion. — 

The day after return to barracks, text-books 
were obtained from the commissary stores, the 
source of all cadet supplies, and on the 1st of Sep- 
tember, which is the first day of the academic 
year, recitations began. 

The 1st of September also witnessed the admis- 
sion of a few more candidates, who, by coming at 
this time, avoided the discomforts of plebe camp. 
But they labored under the great disadvantage of 
having all their squad drill in connection with their 
studies ; and with this against them, they nearly 
all soon gravitated to the foot of the class. 

The studies now begun by Fred's class were 
mathematics and English grammar. For purposes 
of instruction the class was divided alphabetically 
into "sections" of ten or twelve members each, 
and each section was marched to and from its reci- 
tation-room by that one of its members who stood 
the highest alphabetically. In about three weeks, 
transfers began to be made weekly between the sec- 
tions, the object being to grade the class according 




to ability and merit ; and thus the proficiency 
of a cadet in any study could soon be judged by 
knowing the section in which he was. Fred Arden 
had the advantage of starting in the first section 
in each study, and by close application he retained 
this high standing throughout the year. 

The lowest section of the class, which is called by 
cadets the "Immortals," generally contains those 
cadets who have no hope of passing the examina- 
tions, or those who through laziness prefer to 
" chance it" by skimming over the lessons during 
the year, and at examination time studying hard, 
"boning" for a few days in the hope to learn 
enough to pass. From these latter has arisen the 
name of the section, for these lazy mortals become, 
in cadet French, Les Immortelles, which, by easy 
transition to English again, plainly makes them 
" Immortals." 

In January came the first semi-annual examina- 
tion, and all, both high and low, awaited it with 
some dread. For, while the immortals expected 
nothing but failure and dismissal, those directly 
above them were more in doubt as to the result, 
and no one wished to make a poor recitation — 
a "fess" — on examination before the whole Aca- 
demic Board. But the ordeal came and went, and 
soon after, nearly a third of Fred's class went also, 
" found in January," — their military career nipped 
in the bud. 

After the examinations were finished, all the 
classes were re-arranged in each study according 
to the merit of their members ; and study was 
resumed, not to be interrupted again until June. 

Early in February the whole fourth class was 
summoned to the Headquarters Building, where 
they took the "iron-clad" oath of allegiance, and 
received their warrants of appointment as cadets 
at the Military Academy. This was a red-letter 
day, for it marked their transition from conditional 
cadets to cadets pure and simple. Fred felt his 
heart swell with pride and satisfaction as he read 
on his parchment : 

" To All Whom it May Concern. 

" Know ye, that the President has been pleased to appoint 
Frederick Arden, a cadet of the United States Military Academy, 
to rank as such from the first day of July, 1S81. 

" Given under my hand and seal at the War Department, this 
tenth day of February, in the year of our Lord one thousand eight 
hundred and eighty-two, and of the Independence of the United 
States, the 106th. 

" (Signed), Robt. T. Lincoln, Secretary of War. 

" R. C. Drum, Adjutant-General." 

As spring approached, it became a pleasure to 
Fred to watch the progress made in beautifying 
West Point after the long winter, and to dream 
of the glories of corporal's chevrons and the joys 
of yearling camp. Then June came, and the 
examinations were a<jain held. More of the class 

fell victims and were discharged ; the first class 
was graduated ; the third class, now the second, 
went on furlough ; and the new first and third 
classes went into camp together for the summer. 

Chapter V. 


The summer encampment, beginning about the 
middle of June and lasting until September, is the 
holiday season at West Point. The cadets lay 
aside their text-books for the whole period, and, 
living entirely in tents, grow brown by exposure 
to sun and rain and wind. From the beginning 
of camp to the Fourth of July no drill is required, 
the only duties being guard-duty and parade. 
But on July fifth, drills commence in good earnest 
and continue during the remainder of the encamp- 

The advent of the plebes gave to Fred's class 
a feeling of great dignity, in that it now had a class 
below it; and the yearlings, accordingly, proceeded 
to treat the new-comers very much after the man- 
ner in which they themselves had been treated the 
year before, often putting their successors in very 
ridiculous plights. Still, their duties, which were by 
no means light, were performed with far more 
readiness than they had been the previous year ; 
for the class not only led a far pleasanter life, but it 
had now learned the soldier's first lesson of cheer- 
ful and prompt obedience to orders. 

Reveille comes at five o'clock in the summer 
camp. Just before this hour the corporal of the 
guard and one of the privates have rammed a 
cartridge down the throat of the reveille gun, and 
very likely have slipped a wad of paper, some grass, 
and a brickbat in after it, just to make a "thun- 
dering noise." The friction-primer is in the vent 
of the field-piece, and the private stands with the 
lanyard taut in his hand, ready at the word to 
pull the line and discharge the gun. The bell 
of the town clock sounds the first stroke of five. 
Bang ! goes the gun, and the brickbat ricochets 
across the grassy plain. The drum-corps, which 
has been waiting on the color-line for this signal, 
strikes up a tremendous clatter with fifes and 
drums, and plays up and down the street of every 
company ; then, halting again on the color-line, it 
plays the last notes of the reveille. Sleepy cadets 
hurriedly emerge from their tents, buttoning their 
coats as they go ; and as the last notes sound, each 
company forms line. 

" Left face ! " commands the corporal who is 
acting as first sergeant of the company, in the ab- 
sence of that officer with the rest of the second 
class on furlough, and the line faces toward him. 

i88 7 .; 



He calls the roll from memory, and it rattles along, 
— " Arden, Atkinson, Brown, Claymore, Craw, 
Dean, Dent;" and the replies come, — "Here," 
"he-e-r-e," "h-0-0-0," "hare," "erh," "ha-a-ar." 

" All are present, sir," reports the first sergeant 
to his captain, and the captain transmits the report 
to the cadet officer of the day. "Break ranks, 
march!" — the line dissolves, and the cadets go 
to their tents to begin the morning policing. 

During the next half hour, the bedding is neatly 
piled in one corner ; then the tent floor is swept ; 
all sticks, leaves, and scraps of paper are picked 
from around the tents ; and the whole of the refuse 
is swept up in little piles in the middle of each 
company street, ready to be removed by the com- 
pany policeman. If the morning is clear, every 
tent has its walls neatly looped up. Meanwhile, 
surgeon's call has sounded, and the sick have 
gone to the hospital. One of the lieutenants of 
the company inspects the policing, and then the 
drum beats the breakfast call. The companies 
are again formed in line, the rolls are called, and 
each first sergeant marches his company to its 
place in the line, which is formed on the camp 

Now the first captain of the battalion, a tall, 
soldierly fellow with a deep bass voice, draws his 
sword and gives the command ; the line breaks 
into column of companies and, headed by the 
drum-corps, marches lightly to the mess hall. 

In the mess hall, each cadet goes directly to his 
seat ; waiters rush to and fro ; every one chatters 
away to his neighbor between mouthfuls, and as 
soon as his breakfast is finished, devotes himself 
to swelling the uproar and confusion. Presently, 
the first captain, having finished his breakfast, 
rises and makes the tour of the hall, inspecting 
the tables as he passes, and taking mental notes 
of "too much butter on plate," or "napkin not 
properly folded." Then, standing by the staff table, 
he commands, "'B' company, rise!" "B" 
company obediently rises, goes out, and forms in 
line. " C," "D," and "A" companies follow, 
and the battalion marches back as it came. 

Arrived on the camp parade-ground, the com- 
panies wheel into line, halt, and the cadet adjutant 
reads from a paper just given him by his clerk, 
" In arrest, Brown. In confinement from 8 A. M. 
to-day until 8 A. M. to-morrow, Adams, Carroll, 
Dembell, Enderly, Gray, Smith"; and, having 
thus reminded these cadets that they are in dur- 
ance vile, retires. The first captain commands, 
"Dismiss your companies!" the first sergeants 
yell, " Break ranks, march ! " and the orderly bat- 
talion becomes a crowd of jolly, rollicking boys. 

Soon the beating of a drum at the guard tent 
summons the plebes to an hour's squad drill at 

the hands of the yearling corporals. And while 
they laboriously practice "second exercise" and 
"balance," the older cadets disport themselves 


variously about camp. Many produce favorite 
novels from their lockers, and, sitting in camp 
chairs, lose themselves in the interesting pages. 
Others prepare at once for the parade and guard- 
mounting. Coats are brushed, and clean collars are 
"crimped" with tooth-brush handles and pinned 
on the coat-collars. Clean white trousers are 
selected and any needed buttons attached. Belts 
and gloves are inspected, the rifles are brushed and 
wiped, and all specks of dust and dirt removed. 
The ambitious "A" company yearling who goes 
on guard to-day and intends to "throw up for 
colors," appears in the company street and spends 
a quarter of an hour in putting the final touches 
to his rifle. It is our friend Craw who hopes to be 
a "first color man," and accordingly he gets him- 
self up in what he calls "spooney style." His rifle 
is a beauty. The bronze he has rubbed with cha- 
mois-skin until it glistens as though oiled ; the 
wooden stock looks like polished mahogany; and 
all the bright metal parts — the screw heads, the 
rammer tip, the muzzle — are as brilliant as mir- 
rors. His cartridge-box and bayonet scabbard 
have been newly varnished and the brasses pol- 
ished. If he does n't " get rattled and fess on the 
manual," he thinks he will "take colors sure." 
He has a double object in view : he both wishes 
his company to keep ahead of the others in the 
number of colors taken, and to evince his own 
superiority as a color man. 

The hour of drill is now over, and the plebes 
come marching in. They attract considerable 





attention from the visitors who have already gath- 
ered in the shade of the trees at the guard tents 
and attention is called to them still more by the 
voices of the corporals with them. " Hep, hep, 
hep! take step accurately!" calls one. "Keep 
your eyes to the front, Mr. Smith !" " Stop that 
swinging of arms, sir ! carry the palm of your hand 
square to the front ! " They are brought into line 
and dismissed ; and as they break ranks, they start 
for their tents at "double time." for they do not 
have to carry their hands motionless by their sides 
when the} - run. 

Again the drum beats, and the cadets begin to 
appear for parade, each one in his close-fitting, 
swallow-tailed gray coat with three rows of brass 
buttons down the front, a pair of immaculate white 
trousers, black dress hat with polished ornaments, 
white belts and gloves. The famous West Point 
band comes marching up from the barracks and 
takes its position on the right of the parade-ground. 
The little drummer sounds the "assembly"; the 
cadets " fall in"; the roll is called, and the result 
is reported to the captains, and by them to the 
officer of the day. Craw is in the line of file- 
closers as a special favor, so that he need not by 
any possibility mar the beauty of his gun by hand- 
ling in the manual. His coat fits as though it had 
grown on him, his collar is put on with mathemat- 
ical exactness, and his trousers, with their promi- 
nent creases down the front and back, are stiff with 
starch and as white as snow. He walks a little 
stiff-legged, perhaps ; but he considers it neces- 
sary, to prevent his trousers from breaking at the 
knee and looking badly before the adjutant inspects 

Now the drum-major waves his staff, the band 
strikes up a lively tune, and the companies march 
out to its inspiring music and form line on the 
parade. Each company, at its captain's com- 
mand, comes to the position of " parade rest." 
There is a flourish of trumpets from the band ; 
and then, under the guidance of the drum-major, 
who marches majestically in its front, it plays 
down the line and back to its original place. 

The music ceases, and the clear voice of the 

^^^^m^w^^^'^^j "W^?;, 



cadet adjutant rings out, " Battalion, attent-i-o-n ! 
Carry — arms!" His commands are executed by 
the cadets with the precision of automatons. He 
marches to the front until midway between the 
battalion and the officer in charge, who receives the 
parade ; here he halts, faces the battalion, and 
commands, "Present arms!" Crash! the rifles 
fly to the position. He faces about again, and, 
addressing the officer in charge, says, "Sir, the 
parade is formed." 

"Take your post, sir!" replies the officer, and 
with his swinging step the adjutant moves to the 
front and past the officer, to his designated place. 

The officer in charge then exercises the bat- 
talion in the manual of arms, and as the words of 
command fall from his lips, the cadets execute the 
motions in unison, as though moved by machinery, 
such is the degree of perfection to which constant 
application and practice bring them. 

The manual being finished, the adjutant receives 
the reports of the first sergeants, and publishes the 
orders of the day. Then he announces, " Parade 
is dismissed ! " and sheathes his sword. All the 
cadet officers, who have been standing motionless 
in front of their companies, do the same, and 
march toward the center of the line and halt. The 
adjutant has meanwhile joined them, and now 
commands, " Forward, guide center, march ! " The 
music strikes up, the line of officers steps off and 
marches to within a short distance of the officer in 
charge, where they halt and salute. He returns 
the salute, and parade is at an end. The compa- 
nies march back to their company streets, where 
each is inspected by its captain ; while each com- 
pany's detail for guard duty for the day falls out 
of ranks, and forms again by itself, ready to march 
to its place in line for guard mounting when the 

i88 7 .j 



adjutant gives the signal. Soon the signal is 
given, and the details march to the parade-ground 
again, to the music of the band, and form line. 
Then comes the inspection. The officer of the 
guard, who is a first class cadet, faces about from 
his position in front of the guard and commands, 
"Order arms! Inspection arms!" Then, ap- 
proaching the right of the line, he takes each rifle 
as it is thrown to the position of inspection, and 
inspects it carefully, and at the same time casts a 
critical eye over its possessor. It is seldom that 
a cadet presents himself at guard mounting in any 
but a fine condition ; still it occasionally happens 
that dust is discovered in the bore of a gun, or a 
collar is found to be poorly put on. 

Meanwhile the adjutant has passed along the 
line also, and, as he passes, those who intend to 
compete for the honor 
of colors signify it by 
bringing their pieces 
to inspection arms. 
The adjutant gravely 
salutes and goes on : 
the inspection of col- 
or-men will take place 
later. During the in- 
spection of the guard, 
the cadet captains 
have finished the com- 
pany inspections, and 
now march their com- 
panies out to a line in 
rear of the guard, 
where they stack arms. 
The colors of the bat- 
talion are placed on 
the center stacks, and 
thus the establish- 
ment of the color-line 
is completed. One of 
the color-men of the 
guard to be relieved 
is immediately posted 
as sentinel, and he 
walks up and down 
the line of stacks un- 
til relieved by the new 

The guard marches 
in review, and to its 
place at the guard 
tents. The officer of 

the guard says, "Color-men, fall out!" and im- 
mediately half a dozen yearlings step out of ranks 
and are surrounded by classmates from their sev- 
eral companies, who, provided with brushes, give 
the last touch to each competitor. The excitement, 

Vol. XIV. — 42. 

though repressed, is intense ; for but three will be 
chosen, and each feels his knees shake "just a lit- 
tle " as he takes his place in the line, ready for the 
adjutant's inspection. Each rifle is now inspected 
with the utmost care. No particle of dust, rust, or 
dirt can escape that rigid scrutiny. See! The 
adjutant has discovered something at fault with 
the very first piece ! What is it? And the cadets 
looking on crane their necks eagerly to see. Oh, 
it is only a hair caught on the sight, — not enough 
for the cadet to be " cut " on. But the next gun 
fares worse. The adjutant runs his finger along 
the edge of the stock, and then holds his finger 
up for the poor cadet to see. A fine dark streak 
is visible on the glove, and his doom is sealed. 
" Yes, sir ; your gun is too dirty ; fall out ! " says 
the adjutant. And the unfortunate, obedient to 


his fate, — "luck," he calls it, — leaves the line, 
" cut on colors," and returns to his guard. 

Now the adjutant comes to one with whom he 
can find nothing wrong. It is Craw, and the "A" 
company lookers-on become jubilant at the pros- 




pect of winning another first color. Having in- 
spected all the men in front, the adjutant goes 
behind them, and looks them over. Little faults 
that a casual observer would never notice are evi- 
dent to his critical eye, and he calls attention to 
each one. He comes in front again and takes a 
final look at the contestants. Finally he says, 
" Fall out, Craw ; first colors ! " and Craw, noth- 
ing loath, steps out of the line, and, holding up 
one finger to announce his good luck to his com- 
rades, returns to his guard. The cadets from 
his company express their approbation in warm 
terms. " Hurrah for you, Craw! " " Another first 
color for 'A' company ! " 

The visitors gaze with admiration at the first color- 
man of the day. The sentinel whom Craw is to 
relieve sets up a shout of, " Relief ! Corporal of 
the Gua-a-a-rd ; the color-line ! " And as Craw 
marches proudly across the parade, in answer to 
the call, the "A" company plebes gather at the 
end of their company street and applaud vocifer- 
ously. The remaining contestants present an 
almost equally fine appearance, and are made to 
execute the manual of arms to determine the re- 
sult. It is soon decided, for some slight move- 
ment at a purposely wrong command determines 
the fate of one after another, until but two are left ; 
and they take second and third colors for the day. 

Guard mounting is hardly finished when a roll 
of the drum summons all to artillery drill. The 
cadets come from the company streets, each wear- 
ing his short, gray fatigue jacket and gauntlet 
gloves, and cluster on the parade awaiting the as- 
sembly. But those five minutes of waiting are sel- 
dom wasted ; as likely as not, a half dozen sturdy 
yearlings form a circle, each with his arms across 
his neighbor's shoulders ; other smaller cadets 
spring to their shoulders, and form the second tier 
of a " pyramid " ; the third tier goes up, and then a 
diminutive yearling is hoisted up and climbs on 
nimbly to the top, where he stands a moment. 
The next moment, the drummer beats the assem- 
bly, and the pyramid falls to the ground in collapse 
and is quickly incorporated in the line. 

Each class now forms in line by itself, and the 
roll is called by the cadet present who is highest 
in class standing. The officer of the day receives 
the report of these roll-calls, and the classes are 
then marched up to the places of drill. The 
plebes go to the foot-battery, just outside the 
limits of camp, and there learn the names of the 
different parts of the pieces, and are taught how 
to aim and fire them. The yearling class marches 
down the hill to the siege-and-mortar battery, and 
there, for an hour, has target practice with the 
siege guns. How hot the battery is ! The in- 
structor realizes that it is little better than an oven 

this July day, and consequently fulfills the desire 
of each yearling heart by giving frequent " rests," 
wherein the cadets take the opportunity to lie in 
the shade of a neighboring bush and cool off. 

" Battery, attention ! " calls the instructor; and 
the cadets spring up and hasten to their positions, 
around the guns, and stand there motionless. 
" From battery ! " Six cadets at each piece seize 
the handspikes and push and pry the ponderous, 
guns from the parapet until they are at a conven- 
ient distance for loading. The cartridge is rammed 
home, and a thirty-pound iron projectile carefully 
pushed down the bore of the gun after it. The 
guns are again run "in battery" and carefully 
trained on the target, twelve hundred yards away,, 
on Target Hill, across the bend of the river. 

" Ready ! " commands the cadet gunner at each 
piece, as the aiming is completed ; and as he pro- 
nounces the word, a cadet places a primer in the 
vent and holds the lanyard in his hands, ready to 
pull and discharge the piece. 

And now the instructor gives the command, 
"Number one, fire ! '" And with a crash and a 
bang the first gun recoils from the parapet, while 
the projectile, with a prolonged "z-z-z-z," flies to the 
target. The instructor watches its flight with his. 
field-glass, and announces the shot to the gunner: 
"A good line-shot, Mr. Arden, but a trifle high; 
correct your elevation for the next shot." And 
then, " Number two, fire ! " and so on down the 
whole battery. 

At the same hour the first class has marched to- 
Fort Clinton, and there they practice tying knots, 
splicing ropes, mounting heavy artillery pieces on 
their carriages and then dismounting them, and 
drill in all " mechanical maneuvers." It is very 
pleasant to watch this drill, and groups of visitors, 
relatives and friends of the cadets, often pass the 
whole hour under the shade-trees of the old fort, 
watching the progress that Charlie or Frank or 
Ned is making. 

The next duty of the morning is the dancing 
lesson. Each class has an hour a day allotted to- 
it, during which it goes to the fencing academy, 
where the members perfect themselves also in dan- 
cing. Here the yearlings have "fun." The dancing- 
master calls the dance, the pianist strikes up a 
lively tune, and the cadets revolve and gyrate in 
couples about the room. Then comes a quadrille, 
a grand "walk around," or a "stag-dance." They 
can hardly fail to become good dancers when all 
enter into the spirit of it with so much heartiness. 
The dancing-master is the jolliest of short, fat 

" Attention, cavaliers ! " he calls. " In ze valtz: 
ze right foot es advance, soy zen ze left, and ze 
right brought up, sol Now, — one, two, tree; 

,88 7 .] 



one, two, tree ! " and he sways his body and half 
closes his eyes as he chants the numbers, while 
the whole roomful of boys moves as he directs. 
Suddenly he sees a cadet leaning against the wall, 
and he darts across the room to him. 

" Ah, Monsieur, vy do you not dance ? " 

" Can't get the step," is the reply. 

"Oh, et is verry easy ! I vill get you a part- 


ner." And away he goes to another, who also 
has difficulty with the step, and, panting and red 
in the face, brings him to the scene. " Now, Mees 
Fisher, allow me to introduce Monsieur Johnson ; 
now you will dance." And " Johnson and 'Mees' 
Fisher " bow, and redden at the laughter around 
them, and then try again. 

The afternoon until parade is spent as holiday. 
The first class men generally take advantage of 
their privilege to leave camp, and go where they 
will on the post. Yearlings who have obtained 
permission also leave camp ; and as the afternoon 
wears on, the little restaurant at the "'Dutch- 

woman's " becomes filled with gray-coated young- 
sters, noisily enjoying the ice-cream and cake, 
purchased "on check-book! " 

The beating of the drum calls all back to camp 
for the retreat parade, half an hour before sunset. 
This ceremony is a repetition of the morning's 
troop parade, and immediately after it, the corps 
goes to supper, which is eaten with all the more 

relish on account 
of the open air life. 
On hop nights 
the camp is a 
scene of bustling 
activity after the 
return from sup- 
per ; cadets are 
preparing for the 
hop, filling out 
the hop cards of 
their fair partners, 
and reporting 
their departures 
to the hop, or "on 
permit," to the 
first sergeants. 

going to the hop 
to-night?" asks 
Fred Arden, as 
he meets his friend 
coming from the 
adjutant's tent 
with a fresh hop 

"Well, rather," 

replies Delange, 

waving his card. 

"Take a dance on this card 

for me, — with a lovely girl," 

urges Fred. 

Can she dance ?" cautiously in- 
quires Delange. 
"Urn — ah, I don't know; I never 
danced with her ; but she 's a niece of 
my Congressman, and I wish her to have a good 
time," says politic Fred. 

" What 's her name?" asks wary Delange. 
" Miss Limber." 

" Whew ! She ought to dance ! give me the 
seventh, will you?" And so the cards are filled 

And the hop itself, with its crush of lace and 
flowers, its fluttering fans and its fair faces, its 
music, and the delightful motion over the waxed 
floor, is a dream of delight too soon and too rudely 
dispelled by the arrival of the orderly with his 
drum at ten o'clock. "Recall" breaks harshly 




in on the last waltz, and each one makes good 
time back to camp, to avoid being reported "late 
returning from hop." 

Often, on other evenings, knots of cadets gather 
for a song ; and then, with guitar accompaniment, 
roar out, "Benny Havens," and "Army Blue," 
at the tops of their voices. And as some impatient 
yearling catches the words of the first class man's 
favorite song, 

" We 've not much longer here to stay, 
Only a month or two, 
Before we doff the cadet gray 
And don the army blue," 

he is heard sarcastically to rejoin, 

" No, not much longer here to stay, 
Only a year or two ! 
And so we sit around and howl 
That fiendish ' Army Blue ' ! " 

( To be , 

With Fred, the camp passed quickly and 
pleasantly. He became an attendant at the 
hops and enjoyed them greatly. Bevies of pretty 
girls spent the summer at the Point, and by 
their bright presence added much to the season's 

But what rendered the camp especially pleasant 
to Fred was the presence of his parents, who made 
him a long visit. They admired his corporal's 
chevrons, the}' were glad to see that his status in 
the class had been such that his classmates had 
chosen him as one of the hop managers, and in 
all things they were proud of his success. 

But the twenty-eighth of August rolled around 
again, bringing with it the return of the furlough 
class, and the return to barracks. So Fred once 
more commenced the round of study, this time 
with cadet furlough, a year ahead, held out as a 
constant incentive. 



By Charles Frederick Holder. 

One of the most remarkable wars that ever 
occurred, a war in which thirty thousand soldiers 
met an opposing force numbering tens of millions, 
is not recorded in the military histories of the 
country in which it took place. The country was 
Russia, and in the year 1825 came the first call 
for troops. 

The provinces lying between Odessa and Kiev 
sent forth the first alarm. Clouds, like gigan- 
tic whirlwinds, had appeared in the air, rising in 
vast columns and spreading out in strange forms 
above the earth. Nearer they came, and finally 
the terrified peasants found that the clouds were 
alive, — in fact, were vast armies of grasshoppers ! 
The face of the earth was soon covered with them, 
and at midday the sun was darkened, the insects 
hovering over the earth like a pall. They cov- 
ered the houses, crawled under doors and into 
cracks, piled themselves up in heaps, and spread 
devastation wherever'they appeared. 

The poor farmers vainly fought them with fire, 
standing by their gardens to the last. The vast 
hordes settled upon the green crops, in some places 
to the depth of four or five feet, and when they 
rose, the barren ground alone was left to tell the 
tale. Borne along by the wind in waves and sheets, 
the noise of their wings sounded like the rushing of 
a gale through the rigging of a vessel. So great were 

their numbers that the peasants were crazed with 
fear. Some believed that the end of the world had 
come ; while all saw starvation staring them in the 
face, for not only did the grasshoppers eat up 
every blade of green, but they devoured the stores 
of hay and every edible thing. 

The news of the resistless advance of this vast 
invading army, bringing famine with its onward 
march, soon reached the Government of Moscow; 
and in response to an appeal from the people, 
the Emperor Alexander ordered out an army of 
thirty thousand soldiers to fight them. Instead 
of guns and cannon, the men were armed with 
spades, shovels, bags, and implements for making 
fires ; and they advanced upon the enemy, stretch- 
ing out in a line over two hundred miles long. 

The horses could hardly drag the wagons through 
the living mass, often two and three feet deep. The 
grasshoppers clung to the horses and men, and 
leaped about their heads, adding to the confusion. 
They were shoveled up in mounds, collected in 
bags, raked together and burned, yet there was 
no perceptible effect upon their numbers; and 
through the governments of Ekaterinburg and 
Kherson, for hundreds of miles, to the Black Sea, 
they lay in a solid mass two feet thick. 

Through May and June they rose in continuous 
clouds, carrying destruction everywhere. A dis- 



tinguished naturalist, on his way to the Crimea, 
met the insects fifty miles from Kiev ; they clung 
to the wagon wheels like thick mud, and the speed 
of his horses was reduced from eight miles an 
hour to one. For a long distance he passed thus 
through these invaders. Crossing the Black Sea, 

■' ""■' ■!*"■;; "v,. 

: J>U. 


he found that on the island of Phanagoria the 
insects had left the ground. At a distance of 
five miles they resembled columns of black vol- 
canic smoke hanging in the air at a height of six 
hundred feet, the upper portion assuming the 
appearance of dark clouds that cast weird shadows 
upon the earth and darkened the sun's rays. 

In Africa the migrations of grasshoppers are 
equally dreaded, and they are often seen piled in 
massive heaps. And in Algeria some years ago, 
the French General de l'Admirault ordered out 
the army under his command to repel an invasion 
of grasshoppers. Their efforts had some effect in 
staying the impending disaster, 
the enemy being fewer in number 
than they had been in Russia. 

In America also they are a 
scourge. Their invasions are 
made in search of food and are 
often continued for a thousand 
miles or more. The eggs are 
laid in holes in the ground. 
When the young larvae hatch, 
they soon develop wings ; a vast 
band of them sometimes rising 
simultaneously and flying away. 

Specimens of a strange locust 
were observed in England in 1869, 
and it is supposed that they came 
direct from Africa by sea, as ves- 
sels twelve hundred miles from 
land met with hosts of them which 
covered the masts, sails, and rig- 
ging in crawling, flying hordes. 

Yet, though their invasions are 
so disastrous to civilized men, 
some races, which do not culti- 
vate crops, look upon their ap- 
pearance as good fortune, and 
collect them for food. 

Butterfly migrations have at- 
tracted much attention in all coun- 
tries, but the cause of their flights 
is not definitely known. The sul- 
phur, oryellow-colored, butterflies 
of South America are the most 
noted in this respect. Sir Robert 
Schomburgh, in ascending the 
river Essequibo, came upon an 
army of them so dense that the 
sunlight was dimmed, while they 
converted the trees, their leaves, 
and the ground all about into a 
living cloth of gold. For nine 
and a half hours, this wondrous 
procession moved along in rapid 
and silent flight. During this 
time the boat passed up the river nine miles, 
proving that the column was over nine miles wide; 
its length could only be conjectured, — while the 
numbers that composed its rank and file baffled 
all calculation. 

Another sulphur-colored butterfly has a similar 
habit of traveling in vast numbers. The late Pro- 




fessor Darwin met with a swarm of them ten miles 
at sea, off the Bay of San Bias, in Mexico. They 
covered the entire vessel, falling upon the deck in 
a continuous golden shower, until the sailors cried 
out that it was snowing butterflies. From the mast- 


head the end of this swarm was not discernible with 
a spy-glass. 

Many of the larger animals move from place to 
place every season, changing their abode to suit 
the demands of their appetites. But the most 
marvelous invaders are the lemmings. They 

are near relatives of the short-tailed field-mouse, 
and are about five inches long, with round heads, 
brown fur, and bead-like eyes. Their home is in 
the highlands, or fells, of the great central mount- 
ain chain of Sweden and Norway, where they build 
nests of grass for their 
f— - - — — __„_; young. The lemmings 

are spiteful little creat- 
ures when aroused, sit- 
ting up on their hind legs 
and fighting with a will. 
Not only are they pugna- 
cious, but extremely rest- 
less and migratory as 
well; and every five, ten, 
or twenty years they seem 
possessed by a desire to 
see foreign lands. 

Thereupon, they one 
and all leave their settle- 
ments and start out in 
tens of thousands, over- 
run the cultivated tracts 
of land in both Norway 
and Sweden, and ruin 
the plants and vegeta- 
tion. They march only 
at night, pressing on 
slowly in one straight 
course, and allow noth- 
ing to disturb them. 
Birds and various ani- 
mals follow and prey 
upon them; but, not- 
withstanding this, they 
actually increase in num- 
bers, gaining recruits as 
they advance. Rivers are 
swum and hills crossed, 
until, finally, the Atlantic 
or the Gulf of Bothnia is 
But, still impelled by the same 
blind instinct that has led it 
W onward, the entire vast concourse 
plunges into the sea, swimming on- 
ward, the little animals piling one upon 
another as they are beaten back, until at 
times their bodies have formed veritable sea-walls. 
Boatmen returning to the beach have found their 
way obstructed by a struggling horde that has 
just reached the sea. The number of lemmings 
in these bands is beyond all computation. Some- 
times the march is kept up for three years before 
the water is reached. 

In warmer countries, the rats migrate in such 
numbers that the entire country through which 

i88 7 .; 



they pass is sacked. In the Brazilian province of 
Parana, these armies take up their march about 
once in thirty years, owing apparently to the dying 
out of a bamboo, upon the seeds of which they 
feed. Gradually starved out, they start for other 
fields, their numbers being continually re-enforced 
as they advance. Nothing deters them ; houses are 
entered and left bare, plantations are swept away by 
the onward march. In Ceylon, and in Chili also, 
the rats seek other homes for similar reasons. 

A common and dreaded incursion in America is 
that of the army worms, the mysterious marches 
of which are the wonder of all beholders. One of 
these armies swept over the city of New Bedford a 
few years ago, destroying every blade of grass in 
its onward march ; and the noise of its eating 
could be heard distinctly. A trench dug at the 
side of a field was filled in a few moments; impelled 
onward by blind instinct, the insects poured, a 
living cataract, into the tar placed below to receive 

The most dreaded insect invader is the white 
ant. In Africa, their houses are dome-shaped 
mounds often eighteen feet high. These insects 
erect pyramids one thousand times higher than 
themselves ! The ants on their travels so conceal 
their approach that their presence is not suspected 
until the damage is done. They usually tunnel 
into any object which they attack, often reduc- 
ing it to a mere shell. In this way they have 
been known to ascend within the leg of a table, 
devour the contents of a box upon it, and descend 
through a tunnel bored in another leg, all in one 
night. An officer of the English army while call- 
ing upon some ladies in Ceylon was startled by 
a rumbling sound. The ladies started with affright, 
and the next instant they stood with only the sky 
above them ; the roof had fallen in and lay all 
about, leaving them miraculously unharmed ! The 
crash of the fall was distinctly heard all over the 

city. The ants had made their way up through the 
beams, hollowing them out until a great part of 
the framework of the house was ready to fall at 
the slightest shock. 

Spiders sometimes are involuntary aerial invad- 
ers. Vessels have met them in myriads far out at 
sea, floating along suspended from web balloons 
of their own construction. They usually start 
simply to cross some stream. To accomplish this, 
the spider climbs upon a fence, a cliff, or other 
prominent object. Then it raises its body in the 
air and spins sometimes a single line of silk, some- 
times several, so that even when there is no wind, 
the upward current of heated air alone is strong 
enough to bear away the tiny aeronaut over the 
river in its path. Then, perhaps, caught up by 
some stronger breeze, it is borne away over hills 
and forests far out to sea. 

Fishes, too, travel for long distances, even cross- 
ing the Atlantic. The shad and herrings pass up 
the coast in millions every spring ; the vast cod 
family move out into deep water in the summer, 
and in-shore during the winter. But, like the birds 
which take long journeys yearly, the fishes are 
nomads rather than invaders. 

Often in the late autumn I have observed many 
of our Northern birds on the island of Tortugas, 
far out in the Gulf of Mexico, showing that they 
were moving southward over the sea. The pigeons 
present the most remarkable spectacle. Their 
columns are often miles in extent, and when 
alighting, they break down branches and even 
small trees. When in the air, their beating wings 
sound like the rushing of a whirlwind ; the sun is 
darkened, and there seems to be a veritable rain 
of birds. 

In many other animals is found this strange in- 
stinct that often leads them on, they know not 
where ; perhaps to a better land, or perhaps, as 
with the lemmings, to a certain destruction. 


By G. C. 

" Shall I go and call them up,- 
Snowdrop, daisy, buttercup ? " 
Lisped the rain; "they 've had a pleasant winter's 
Lightly to their doors it crept. 
Listened while they soundly slept ; 
Gently woke them with its rap-a-tap-a-tap .' 
Quickly woke them with its rap-a-tap-a-tap ! 

Soon their windows opened wide,- 
Everything astir inside ; 
Shining heads came peeping out, in frill and 
" It was kind of you, dear Rain," 
Laughed they all, " to come again : 
We were waiting for your rap-a-tap-a-tap ! 
Only waiting for your rap-a-tap-a-tap ! " 




By Ellen M. Hutchinson. 

Nearly a hundred years ago, when your lit- 
tle great-grandfather was bedecked with ruffled 
breeches and large frilled collars, and your little 
great- grandmother's long skirts flapped about her 
heels, as did the long skirts of the lady whom 
she called " Honored Mamma," there was born 
to Great Britain and Ireland a robust princess 
named Charlotte Augusta. It was thought that 
a lovelier infant never graced the earth, though, to 
be sure, her complexion was of a mild scarlet, her 
nose was extremely pug, and her hair was chiefly 
remarkable for its scantiness. But then, she was 
the only child of George, Prince of Wales, the heir 
to the English throne. And under all monarchies 
it is considered to be a most desirable thing that 
there should be an unbroken line of rulers all 
eldest children of eldest children. Little Charlotte 
was a fat child, with a good loud voice of her own, 
and all loyal Britons were filled with rapture at the 
thought that some day she would exercise it in 
ruling over them. 

For eight years Charlotte lived with her mother, 
who was a pretty and lively German princess, and 
who taught the little thing her letters. When 
Charlotte came to cast her letters into syllables, 
she had an imposing instructor, a clergyman of 
eminent learning and tremendous dignity. When 
she was n't repeating her a-b-abs, she was occu- 
pied in committing hymns to memory ; so that 
when grave and reverend bishops and statesmen 
came to see her mother, the baby would perch 
on the Princess Caroline's knee, and say her hymns 
to their most respectful delight. 

She was a generous little lass ; and when she was 
seven years old she sat herself down and sewed 
up with stitches of extraordinary crookedness a 
bag to contain the money which she devoted to 
the poor. This agreeable bag she called, in the 

lofty language of the time, "The purse of the 
afflicted." When the British public heard about 
this bag, it felt much happiness ; and large com- 
panies of able-bodied beggars immediately pro- 
ceeded to travel in the direction of the house 
wherein the young Princess dwelt. 

For a person of only seven years' experience, 
her good sense was great, whenever her perversity 
did not carry her away. Her music-teacher, who 
was silly enough to think that a princess without 
flattery was like a duck without water, once highly 
commended her execution when she herself knew 
that it was faulty and deserved no praise at all. 
The room was filled with other people who held sim- 
ilar opinions about princesses and ducks ; and all, 
when she appealed to them, declared that her 
Royal Highness had played in a manner to ravish 
the ears of angels. She knew better, but said no 
more at the moment. When Master Teacher came 
next morning for a lesson, however, he found his 
pay and a discharge ready for him; also a piece 
of advice from her little Highness, that " he should 
never indulge error in a pupil where he was em- 
ployed to perfect the unskillful." Thus Charlotte 
showed her power of reasoning and her mastery of 
the English language, rebuked a flatterer, and pro- 
cured for herself a very pleasant little vacation, — 
the finding of another suitable teacher being a 
work of time and deep British deliberation. 

Though she had a bishop to instruct her, she 
was sometimes exceedingly naughty ; and if she 
had not been a Royal Highness, would have been 
well whipped, — a blessing which the lower orders. 
, have always largely enjoyed. This kind and 
learned gentleman used often to give her lectures 
upon command of the passions, to which she list- 
ened sweetly, with the whites of her little eyes 
turned up and her little fat hands folded in the 

iS8 7 .; 


60 1 

most saintly fashion. But, one day, he was hardly 
gone, after delivering a long address on self-gov- 
ernment and self-denial, when one of her attend- 
ants refused her something she wanted, and made 
her, in the language of wicked little girls, '"as 
mad as hops." "At first," says a person describing 
the scene, "she only expostulated strongly"; but 
when a hasty and sharp retort was given to some- 
thing she herself had said, instantly she turned 
the cock of the urn (they were at tea), and filling a 
cup with the boiling water, she dashed it full at 
the criminal ! Mischief was to pay now. The 
bishop was sent for. 

ishing the " sweet acknowledger " for her liberality 
with boiling water. 

Sometimes, however, she remembered the good 
bishop's instructions more than half an hour after 
his departure, and commanded her passions in a 
more satisfactory manner. 

One day, she was going through a desperately 
long lesson, and was quite exhausted when her 
teacher pronounced the joyful words, "That'll 
do." Up bounced Her Royal Highness. Alas! 
as I have said, those were the days when little 
girls' gowns flapped about their heels. The small 
Princess wore a train, and the learned doctor had 

6 ^uo! e -t= 

" 'Oh, my beloved, is it come to this? Well, 
well ! I see I must discontinue my advice ; that I 
see clearly ; indeed I must ! ' 

" ' No, no ; pray don't, my lord ! ' (her eyes 
swimming in tears. ) 'Indeed, indeed, your lessons 
did me good ; for them I am much obliged ; and ' 
(trying for a smile) 'somebody else ought to feel 
obliged, too ; for were it not ' (said the sweet 
acknowledger) ' for the impressions of your good- 
ness, somebody perhaps might not have come off 
so easily.' " 

That was the way they talked about little prin- 
cesses in those days ; and nobody thought of pun- 

unintentionally placed his foot on it. So when she 
bounced up from her chair, her favorite gown by 
her own movement was torn obliquely from the 
edge to the very top. The venerable doctor suffered 
much in his loyal feelings, and declared, for apology 
and consolation, that the rent would have been a 
small one if it had not fallen in with the direction of 
the thread, "whereby," said he, "it ran." Then 
said the little girl — and all the attendants laughed 
and roared when they heard of the witticism : 

" I am sure, sir, it was none of your fault that 
it ran, for certainly you held it." And away she 
flew to her play. 




She had so extraordinary an affection for the 
Latin grammar that she became a model and a 
terror to all the schoolboys of the kingdom. She 
studied it so energetically that in eighteen months 
from the time she began the language she could 
translate the Latin Testament with accuracy and 
neatness. By way of special pleasure for Saturday 
mornings, she was made to recite from memory 
all the lessons of the foregoing week — an amuse- 
ment which doubtless often put her in the boiling- 
water frame of mind. It was, perhaps, after these 
little recitations that she used to torment her timid 
attendant, Lady de Clifford. She would bundle 
this nice, nervous old lady into her wee carriage, 
and then whip up her white ponies, wheeling off 
into fields and driving them over all sorts of 
heights and hollows at the top of their speed. 
Poor Lady de Clifford would cry and scold, with 
terrified looks; but naughty Charlotte would only 
reply in an affable and patronizing manner : 

and lackeys came crowding around, begging to 
know what was the matter; and Lady Elgin was 
so frightened she could hardly speak. As for the 
Princess, she shrieked, and sobbed, and spoiled 
her big hat and feathers in trying to hide her head 
on her governess's shoulder. When all were 
nearly out of their wits with dismay, " Oh ! " she 
cried, " I have beat the turkey-cock ! " 

There was in the courtyard a turkey-cock of 
which she had long been afraid, and which had 
many a time put her to flight ; but on this occa- 
sion the baby Princess, disdaining to run, had 
summoned all her courage, and kicked and pum- 
meled her enemy until he was glad to escape. 

When the British public heard of the turkey- 
cock battle, it went about all puffed up with pride, 
saying what a great and magnanimous queen this 
little pugilist was going to be. 

Charlotte loved to be praised, but with discrim- 
ination, — which means that she did n't want more 

"It is exercise, my Lady, exercise; there is 
nothing like exercise." 

When Charlotte was a very little creature, the 
British public, which has always been very fond 
of pluck and valiant deeds, delighted in relating 
tales about her courage. For example : her gov- 
erness was reading one day, when the door burst 
open and her little Highness came rushing in, out 
of breath ; and gasping, " Oh, Lady Elgin ! Lady 
Elgin ! " fell into her lap. All the maids of honor 

than an inch of marmalade on her bread. When 
any of her friends would say, " Sweet creature ! " — 
which they very often did, especially if they wanted 
her to do them a favor, — she would turn up her 
little nose and ask : 

" How ; why do you call me sweet ? I hope 
you have no thoughts of eating me." 

And if anybody declared she was "a good girl," 
she always inquired : 

"For what am I good? Tell me first what I 

i88 7 .] 



have done to make me good ? " Then all the 
courtiers who heard her would say to one another, 
" What a beautiful thing humility is ! " 

Sturdy Charlotte never became Queen of Eng- 
land, for she died when she was a good-humored 
young lady of twenty-two ; and from one end of 
the kingdom to the other the people mourned her 
early end. When her insane grandfather, George 
III., died, her father became King George IV., 
and an uncommonly bad and stupid king he was; 
though his people had a curious way of calling him 

the "First Gentleman in Europe." Then, after 
he died, his brother, King William IV., reigned; 
and when he departed, their young niece Victoria 
ascended the throne which her poor little cousin 
Charlotte once hoped to fill. All loyal Britons are 
now celebrating Victoria's Jubilee — the fiftieth 
year of her rule. And a better queen than the 
kind Victoria has been it would be hard to find, — 
even in the land where good fairies reign, and 
their lordships, Mustard-seed and Cobweb, do the 


By E. Cavazza. 

A shepherd boy beneath the pines 
That clothe the solemn Apennines. 

All through the day he played his pipe, 
Or watched the wanderings of his sheep, 

Or, when the pine-cone seeds were ripe, 
He stored them like a squirrel's heap, 
Or, half-awake and half-asleep, 

He dreamed among the tangled vines. 

Below him, shining in the sun, 

Through Vespignano's verdant vale 

He saw the slender rivulets run ; 
Above him, by the day made pale, 
The moon, a phantom vessel, sail 

A shepherd boy beneath the pines 
That clothe the solemn Apennines. 

Of stray lost sheep or lonely lamb 

Sometimes he heard the plaintive bleat. 

Then he would answer, " Here I am," 
And on his pipe make music sweet, 
And run to meet and gladly greet 

The animal with friendly signs. 

Once, as he sat beside a rock, 
For his caress the favorite came, 

The gentlest sheep of all the flock, 

Shapely of form, full-fleeced and tame ; 
He stroked her head and spoke her name, 

While in his mind grew grand designs. 

A shepherd boy beneath the pines 
That clothe the solemn Apennines. 

: Can I not picture her ? " he thought. 
Then, satisfied with pats and praise, 
The sheep a tuft of clover sought, 

And with bent head began to graze ; 
The child, not moving from his place, 
Upon the rock drew rapid lines. 

A shepherd boy beneath the pines 
That clothe the solemn Apennines. 

And while the boy was busy still 

With pencil made of sharpened slate, 

A mounted man rode up the hill, 

And seeing the child, he chose to wait 
And watch the work — for he was great 

In art, and knew Art's countersigns. 

And when he saw, the task being done, 
The sheep depicted faithfully, 

Old Cimabue said, " My son, 

Will you not come to live with me, 
My pupil and my friend to be, 

And leave your lonely Apennines ? " 

A shepherd boy beneath the pines 
That clothe the solemn Apennines. 

The boy, all blushing at his words, 
Said, "Ah, my master, if I may ! 

My father, leading home his herds, 
Comes even now along the way ; 
And I must do as he shall say — 

His 'yes' accepts, his 'no' declines." 

A shepherd boy beneath the pines 
That clothe the solemn Apennines. 

Right readily the father yields 
His son the "yes" of his desire; 

And Giotto left his upland fields 
With heart and fancy all on fire 
To climb the hill of Fame — far higher 

Than any slope of Apennines. 




By Grace Denio Litchf>eli>. 

Hum ! hum ! I 'm coming, coming. 
Don't you hear me humming, humming, 
Like some distant drummer drumming 

His tired troops to sleep? 
Rat-tat-tat, and hum-hum-hum, 
Near, more near, I come, I come, 
With some to dine, to sup with some, 

With all a feast to keep. 

Hum ! hum ! I 'm coming, coming. 
Don't you hear me humming, humming? 
Don't you feel me thrumming, thrumming, 

'Round and 'round your head ? 
I am choosing some fair place 
In that field you call your face, 
There to rest me for a space, 

While supper shall be spread. 

Hum ! hum ! How neat you are ! 
Hum! hum! How sweet you are ! 
Hum-m ! hum-m ! Too sweet by far ! 
I '11 dally for a bit. 

Try you there, and try you here ; 
Taste your chin, your cheek, your ear; 
And that line of forehead near, 
Ere settling down to it. 

Hum ! hum ! You can not say 
1 sup and dine, and do not pay. 
Behind me, when I go away, 

Just here, and here, and here, 
I '11 leave a tiny, round, bright spot — 
A brand-new coin, laid down red-hot, 
In full return for all I got. 

I pay most dear, most dear. 

Hum! hum ! I 've supped, and rarely 
And you still are sleeping fairly. 
Hum-hum-hum ! We twain part squarely. 

All my dues I pay for. 
One more taste, and one more sip, 
From your eyelid, from your lip, 
Then away I '11 skip-skip-skip — 

There 's nothing more to stav for. 

By General Adam Badeau. 

THERE are two kinds of war in modern times: 
one is begun by governments, and carried on prin- 
cipally by armies, and in this the people of the 
countries have for the most part little concern ; 
the other is war in which the people themselves 
take an active part. The civil war at the South 
was of the latter sort. After it was once begun, 
the population of the South were as profoundly 
interested as their own government, and bore 
as important a part. Nearly every grown white 
man in the Southern States was in the ranks ; 
and the women and children and the few men 
who staid at home were, if anything, more in 
earnest than those who belonged to the army. 
The population, including the slaves, furnished 
supplies of every sort to those at the front: they 
made shoes and clothes and sometimes arms; they 

plowed and reaped, and ground and baked, and 
forwarded food. Without them the armies of the 
South could not have been maintained. 

The Valley of Virginia was the great farm- 
ground and storehouse for Lee's army. It is an 
unusually fertile region, two hundred miles long, 
and fifty wide, lying between the Alleghany and 
the Blue Ridge Mountains, and extending from 
the Potomac on the north to the James River 
on the south. Here the crops were raised that fed 
the defenders of Richmond. Here the saddles 
and harnesses for Lee's cavalry were made ; here 
were the gun-stock factories, the shoe-shops, the 
cloth-mills, the furnaces and foundries that fur- 
nished his munitions of war. The Valley is full of 
good roads along which an army can march rapidly, 
and it had been the avenue by which the Southern 



commanders had several times invaded the North. 
For, walled in by lofty mountains on the right and 
left, the Confederates could, at any time, move 
suddenly and easily to the Potomac River without 
being discovered by the great Union force a hun- 
dred miles eastward in Virginia. 

In the summer of 1864 Lee sent General Jubal 
A. Early northward through this Valley with nearly 
thirty thousand men, while all of Grant's army 
was engaged before Richmond. The Southern- 
ers emerged from the Valley at Harper's Ferry, 
entered Maryland, and even penetrated Penn- 
sylvania, but finally turned and approached with- 
in seven miles of Washington. Their guns could 
be heard at the Capitol, and the President could 
almost perceive their pickets from the White 
House windows. The greatest alarm prevailed at 
the North. The President and the Secretary of 
War sent urgent messages to Grant, who, how- 
ever, knew that this was an attempt of Lee to 
divert him from the campaign against Richmond, 
and he refused to remove his army to the Potomac. 
Washington was well fortified, and Grant did not 
think it in serious danger. Nevertheless, he sent 
re-enforcements which proved sufficient, and the 
Confederates fell back to the point where the Poto- 
mac crosses the northern entrance to the Valley. 

There, however, they remained, a menace and 
a mortification to the North. Repeated efforts 
were made to expel them from the position. 
Various commands and commanders were sent 
against them, but they held their ground, till 
the country became anxious and angry. Finally, 
Grant placed General Philip H. Sheridan at the 
head of all the troops opposed to Early. Sheri- 
dan had never before commanded an independent 
army, and the Government was not inclined to 
put much confidence in his ability. Grant was 
aware of this, and said nothing of his intention to 
the President or the Secretary of War. He went 
himself to the army in front of Early, and then 
sent for Sheridan and placed him in command. 
Then he explained to the new general his task. 

First of all, Sheridan was to put himself south of 
the enemy. This would be sure to dislodge them, 
for it would threaten their communications with 
their rear ; and the great aim of every general in 
modern war is to threaten the rear of his enemies, 
— to cut them off from communication with their 
friends. When you can do this, you have half 
won the game. Next, Sheridan was to fight and 
follow Early to the death. 

"Wherever the enemy goes," said Grant, "let 
our troops go also. Once started up the Valley, 
they ought to be followed till we get possession of 
the Virginia Central Railroad," — a hundred miles 
south of the Potomac River. Next, he was to con- 

sume or destroy everything eatable by man or 
beast in the Valley. 

" Eat out Virginia," said Grant again, " so that 
crows flying over it for the balance of the season 
will have to carry their provender with them." 

The luxuriant harvests of the region, as I have 
shown, had filled the storehouses of Richmond. 
To obtain these stores and supplies had been one 
main object of Early's campaign. Indeed, that 
commander used his troops as farmers when they 
were not fighting or marching. They reaped 
and threshed the grain ; and while one portion of 
his force was actually engaged in battle, another, 
close in the rear, was sometimes grindingcorn. The 
certainty of obtaining these stores enabled the 
Southerners to send troops into the Valley without 
provisions, except such as they obtained on their 
way or after their arrival. Grant determined to put 
an end to all this ; to protect Washington ; to 
drive off the bold antagonist who had alarmed the 
North; and — quite as important — to seize and 
strip the rich Valley where that antagonist had 
found his supplies ; to prevent further invasion by 
making it impossible for an army to live in the 
region. For the Southerners could send no sup- 
plies to the Valley ; it was as much as they could 
do to feed the troops at Richmond. The Valley 
itself was the granary on which they depended, 
and when that was exhausted, they had no means 
to fill it from the outside. 

Now, Grant believed that the war at the South 
could not be ended solely by fighting. It was his 
policy to destroy whatever supported the armies ; 
to kill all the men ; to consume all the food, and 
to break up all the roads by which further supplies 
could be brought. There was plenty of fighting — 
as many and fierce battles in the same space of 
time as the world ever saw ; but the struggle was 
between men of the same race, equally brave, 
equally in earnest; and the only way to conquer, 
according to Grant, was to attack the people as 
well as the armies. One great means was the 
destruction of the supplies in the Valley of Vir- 
ginia. But the supplies were ably and bravely 
defended, and before they could be destroyed the 
defenders must be beaten. This was Sheridan's 
first task. 

He was just thirty-three years of age — the very 
prime of life for a soldier ; for after forty no man is 
so fit for war as before, so full of spirit and vigor 
and endurance — and all these are qualities of mind 
or body essential in a great commander. " Old men 
for counsel, young men for action," says the 
proverb, truly. But Sheridan was not only full of 
energy ; his judgment was clear, which every one 
can see is also important in a general. His decis- 
ion too was quick, and this, if possible, is more 




important still ; for in the turmoil of battle there is on either side in the war had more of this personal 

not time to consider long. As well decide wrong, magnetism than Sheridan. In battle, he stood in 

as decide too late. Sheridan had experience of war, his stirrups, waving his hat and brandishing his 

he had skill, he had undaunted courage. By cour- sword, and shouting to his men. His eyes flashed, 



"the army carried off all the horses, cattle, and mules." 

age I do not mean merely the trait which enables a 
man to stand fire without running away, but the 
fearlessness to take great risks, to send his men 
into battle knowing that if he lost, he lost all — 
his own fame, the lives of his troops, the future, 
perhaps, of his country. Many a brave man 
shrinks in the presence of such possibilities. But 
this sort of daring is indispensable in a great sol- 
dier ; and this Sheridan possessed. 

He also had a sympathetic nature that attracted 
men, gave him a great influence over them, and 
made them love him and follow him. No soldier 

his face shone, and wounded men went on after 
they had been shot, because he commanded them. 
He ordered the bands to play, and led the front 
line himself with the colors in his hand, and the 
example was contagious. Such a man was almost 
sure to lead his troops to victory. 

For six weeks the new commander moved cau- 
tiously about at the entrance to the Valley ; for 
Sheridan was wary as well as active. His force 
was little, if any, larger than Early's, and great 
things hung on his success. It was important 
to give the enemy no chance, yet a single mis- 

:88 7 .) 



move might leave open the road to Washington. 
Besides this, he was hampered by the fact that 
his own movements depended on those of other 
armies a hundred miles away. He was to drive 
Early, it is true, but, at the same time, to hold 
him from rejoining Lee, so that Grant might not 
find his enemy too strong in front of Richmond ; 
for modern war is like a great chess-board, and 
Sheridan and Early were the knights in the game, 
moving suddenly, leaping, as it were, from one 
point to another, but each under the control of a 
hand that moved every piece on its own side in 
the game. 

Finally, the country and the government be- 
came impatient, as those often are who look 
at war from afar, not knowing the plans or pros- 
pects of commanders or, sometimes, the real 
situation. Grant therefore went to see Sheridan, 

asked Sheridan, on a Friday, if he could be ready 
to fight by Tuesday ; and Sheridan said he would 
be ready by Monday morning. So Grant went 
off on Sunday, to let Sheridan fight in his own 
way, and get all the glory if he won. 

At this very time Early unwisely divided his 
army, sending nearly a third to a point some twenty 
miles away. Sheridan at once detected the blun- 
der, and determined to attack the opposing forces 
while they were divided, which is always good strat- 
egy. In fact, one great object of generalship is 
to divide your enemy, and fall upon one of his 
divisions with your own united force. This was 
one of Napoleon's frequent maneuvers. But Early 
divided his troops himself in the very presence of 

The two armies were facing each other, a lit- 
tle east of the town of Winchester, and Sheridan 


and talked with him of the position of affairs. 
He took a plan of battle with him, in his pocket, 
but he found Sheridan understood so well what 
he had to do, that he told him to fight as he had 
intended, and never showed him the plan. He 

moved forward the greater part of his command, 
holding one division in reserve, to be used at the 
crisis. Early learned that Grant had been with 
Sheridan, and judging from this that a battle was 
probable, recalled the detachment he had sent 




away. It returned in the midst of the battle, and 
proved an important re-enforcement, driving Sheri- 
dan back from the ground he at first had gained. 
Then, however, Sheridan brought up his reserves 
on his own right, and wheeled them around to 
•envelop Early's left, while the Northern cavalry 
moved at the same time on the opposite flank. The 
double force approached with terrible vigor, and the 
spectacle to the enemy was tremendous. Crowded 
in on both flanks, overlapped on the left, with 
Sheridan's cavalry charging into them on the right, 
they fell into confusion. Their lines were broken in 
every direction, and as Sheridan said in his famous 
dispatch, he "sent them whirling through Winches- 
ter. " Early lost 4500 men, of whom 2500 were 
prisoners. " The result," said Grant, " was such 
that I never afterward thought it necessary to visit 
Sheridan before giving him orders." 

Sheridan pushed on without stopping. There 
are generals who are content with winning a vic- 
tory. They sit down and rest, and let the enemy 
move leisurely off to prepare for another contest. 
Such generals may win battles, but they lose cam- 
paigns. Sheridan was not of that sort ; he chased 
Early hard for twenty or thirty miles, which is a 
great march for infantry at any time, and after a 
battle it was wonderful. But it is surprising what 
men can do when they must. A beaten army 
under the spur of pursuit can march incredibly 
fast; while the victors, enthusiastic and aglow with 
success, will make such time as under ordinary cir- 
cumstances would be thought impossible. So 
Early fled and Sheridan followed nearly thirty 
miles in twenty-four hours. 

The battle of Winchester lasted till dark on the 
19th of September, and on the evening of the 20th 
Sheridan came up with Early at Fisher's Hill. At 
this point the mountains approach so close that the 
Valley is only three miles across ; and here behind 
a rapid stream, called Tumbling River, the South- 
erners had erected a line of breastworks. Early- 
thought himself so safe with mountains protecting 
either flank, and a stream in front, that he un- 
loaded his ammunition-boxes and placed them 
behind his breastworks. But he did not even yet 
know his enemy. 

On the morning of the 21st, Sheridan began his 
preparations for another assault. He liked the 
maneuver he had performed at Winchester so well 
that he determined to try it again. He concealed 
a portion of his command under Crook in the 
woods on the western mountain, and at daylight 
of the 22d moved ostentatiously forward with his 
main body against the enemy's center. While 
Early was preparing to resist this advance Sheri- 
dan hurled Crook suddenly from the western hills 
against the Confederate left. Thus taken in flank, 

the Southerners gave way, for no soldiers will long 
resist a heavy attack on their flank, which they 
can not return — they must fight face to face with 
the enemy ; and Early's line crumbled under the 
assault ; Crook was actually behind the defenses. 
At the same time Sheridan's center advanced, 
and between two fires the Southern army was 
almost destroyed. Sheridan took possession of the 
works while Early fled in confusion. Sixteen can- 
non were left on the ground, and sixteen hundred 
prisoners surrendered in the open field. Of those 
who fled, many left their muskets behind them. 
The rout was complete. 

The pursuit continued during the night, and on 
the following day Sheridan drove the enemy quite 
out of the narrow valley into the gaps of the 
Blue Ridge Mountains, while his troops took pos- 
session of the country a hundred miles south of the 
Potomac River. The effect of these victories was 
prodigious. The whole North rang with applause, 
and Sheridan became one of the most conspicu- 
ous and popular of the Union generals. On the 
other hand, Early was censured by Lee ; his sol- 
diers remained panic-stricken for days, and the 
Richmond mob painted on the cannon ordered 
to his support, " For General Sheridan, care of 
General Early." 

It was now time for Sheridan to carry out 
Grant's second set of orders. He had " followed 
the enemy to the death," had " got south of them," 
had driven them out of the coveted region, and re- 
lieved the North from all fear of invasion by the 
Valley ; now he was ready to begin the destruction 
of supplies. Grant did not desire to retain a large 
force in the Valley, but, in order to make it safe to 
withdraw Sheridan, it was necessary to ravage the 
country, so that no other Southern army could 
remain there and live. For I can not too often re- 
mind young readers that armies must be fed; and 
Lee's army was fed from this Valley. It was his 
great granary. Sheridan therefore devastated the 
whole country between the Blue Ridge and the 
Alleghanies. It was very terrible, but it was war; 
and the crudest war is sometimes the most mer- 
ciful, for it is surer to be short. One side or the 
other must give way. 

Accordingly, Sheridan carried off all the cattle, 
horses, and mules ; he burnt all the mills, as well 
as destroyed all the crops, so that not only the 
present supplies were annihilated, but it was im- 
possible to raise more; even the negroes were 
carried off, that planting might be impracticable, 
for there were none but negroes who could plant ; 
all the white men were in the army. So complete 
a destruction of the resources of a country has 
hardly been known in modern warfare, but it an- 
swered its purpose, and helped to end the war. 

i88 7 ] 



The people suffered, but I began by telling that 
this was a people's war. The South had a right to 
make it such ; one can not but admire their pluck 
in doing so ; but they risked the consequence. 
If you deal hard blows, you must expect them. 
The Southern people fought the North, and Grant 
and Sheridan fought the Southern people as well 
as the Southern armies. 

But the very success with which this plan was 
carried out made it impossible for Sheridan him- 
self to remain in the region. All forage and grain 
south of him had been sent to Lee ; all the rest 
Sheridan himself had consumed or destroyed. He 
was a hundred miles from his base, and supplies 
could not be brought up rapidly enough to enable 

Sheridan, meanwhile, had begun his backward 
march, "stretching the cavalry across the Valley 
from the Blue Ridge to the eastern slope of the 
Alleghanies, with directions to burn all forage and 
barns, and drive off all stock as they moved." It 
was a march of terror to the inhabitants. The 
country was literally cleared as with fire, and abso- 
lutely nothing was left on the ground for the sub- 
sistence of an army. Dwelling-houses, however, 
were not burned, and the population were un- 
harmed, unless they molested or misled the 

On the 9th of October, Early came up with the 
cavalry at a place called Tom's Brook, near the 
site of the battle of Fisher's Hill ; but Torbert, at 

"face the other way, boys! face the other way!" (see next page.. 

him to penetrate farther. There was no alternative 
but to retrace his steps. 

Lee, however, could not yet make up his mind 
to abandon this important territory ; he deter- 
mined to make one more effort to recover it. 
Early had not absolutely crossed the Blue Ridge, 
but had only tied to its western base, and Lee now 
re-enforced him with ten thousand men, and ordered 
him to return. 

Vol. XIV. —43. 

the head of Sheridan's horse, turned and routed 
the Southern cavalry, capturing eleven guns, the 
forges for the batteries, the wagons for head- 
quarters, and everything else that was carried 
on wheels. The enemy were followed "on the 
jump" twenty-six miles, over a mountain and 
across a river. Sheridan had now captured thirty- 
six cannon since the 19th of September. Some 
of this artillery was new and had never been 




used. It had evidently just been sent from Rich- 
mond, " for General Sheridan, care of General 

After this affair, the victorious general continued 
his northward march. Early remained quiet for 
several days after his third defeat, and then fol- 
lowed at a respectful distance. On the 13th of 
October, Sheridan was summoned to Washington 
by the Secretary of War, who desired to consult 
him about the further movements of the campaign. 
On the 15th he started for the capital, leaving his 
army, under the command of General Wright, 
intrenched on the northern side of Cedar Creek, 
a stream that runs entirely across the Valley, near 
Strasburg and Fisher's Hill. 

Early, meanwhile, was preparing for a desperate 
effort, and on the night of the 18th of October, 


he moved against Sheridan's army. Crossing the 
river in the darkness, he crept unobserved under 
the Union guns, attacked the army at day-break, 
and drove in the left, capturing eighteen guns and 
a thousand prisoners. This part of the command 
was absolutely routed. The right remained un- 
broken, but the whole army was forced back a 
distance of six or seven miles ; many of the troops 
were in a deplorable condition, the infantry not 
even keeping together as companies. It was a 
mob, not an army. 

Sheridan had left Washington on the morning 
of the 1 8th, by train, and passed the night at 
Winchester, twenty miles north of the battle-field. 
On the morning of the 19th, he heard the firing 
of cannon, and sent out to inquire the cause, but 
was told it came from a reconnoissance. At nine 

o'clock he rode leisurely out of Winchester, not 
dreaming that his army was in danger. After a 
little, he heard again the sound of heavy guns, 
and now he knew what it must mean. Not half a 
mile from Winchester he came upon the appalling 
marks of defeat and rout. The runaways from 
the battle, still in flight, had got so far as this in 
their terror. The trains of wagons were rushing 
by, horses and drivers all in confusion, for there is 
no worse turmoil in this world than the flight and 
wreck of a beaten army. Sheridan had never seen 
his own men in this condition before. 

He at once ordered the trains to be halted, and 
sent for a brigade of troops from Winchester ; these 
he posted across the road to prevent further strag- 
gling. Then he called for an escort of twenty men, 
and, directing his staff to stem the torrent as well as 
they could, he set off himself for 
the battle-field. He rode straight 
into the throng of fugitives, in a 
splendid passion of wrath and 
determination, spurring his horse 
and swinging his hat as he passed, 
and calling to the men : 

" Face the other way, boys ! 
Face the other way ! " 

Hundreds turned at the appeal, 
and followed him with cheers, for 
they all knew Sheridan. 

It was ten o'clock before he 
reached the field. There he rode 
about hurriedly, glanced at the 
position, and at once determined 
upon his course. He re-arranged 
the line of those who were still 
unbeaten, and then went back to 
bring up the panic-stricken re- 
mainder. And now his presence 
and personal influence told. He 
was in the full uniform of a major- 
general, mounted on a magnificent black horse, 
man and beast covered with dust and flecked 
with foam ; he rose again in his stirrups, he drew 
his sword, he waved his hat, and shouted to his 
soldiers : 

" If I had been here, this never would have hap- 
pened. Face the other way, boys ! We are going 
back ! " 

The flying soldiers were struck with shame 
when they heard him shout and saw his face blazing 
with rage and courage and eagerness for them. 
They took up his cry themselves, " Face the 
other way ! " It went on from one to another for 
miles — from crowd to crowd — and they obeyed 
the command. As the swelling shout went on, the 
surging crowd returned. They faced the other 
way, and, along the very road which a cower- 

i88 7 .] 



ing mob had taken three hours before, the same 
men marched, with the tread of soldiers, to meet 
the enemy. They knew now that they were led 
to victory. 

He led them to their place ; he re-formed the 
whole line, and a breastwork of rails and logs 
was thrown up — just in time. As Sheridan reached 
the front he could see the enemy moving to the 
attack ; but now he was prepared. The assault was 
heavy, but the men stood their ground, and this time 
it was Early's troops that broke. Then Sheridan 
advanced, and over the same ground where his 
army had been defeated in the morning, he pursued 
a shrinking enemy; recaptured every cannon that 
had been lost, drove the Southerners across the 
creek, found a ford where the river turned, got 
among the wagons and made the pursuit a rout. 
Early tried to rally his men at Fisher's Hill, where 
he had fought a few days before, but all in vain : 
there was no organization left ; he could not form 
them into line. Two thousand made their way to 
the mountains, and for ten miles the road was cov- 
ered with small arms, blankets, knapsacks, and 
wounded men — the fragments of a flying army. 
Sheridan captured twenty-four pieces of artillery, 
besides all that had been lost in the morning ; six- 
teen hundred prisoners were taken ; and Early lost 
eighteen hundred and sixty killed and wounded. 
His command was in worse condition than at 
Winchester or Fisher's Hill. 

This battle ended the campaign in the Valley ; 
the Southerners never again attempted to invade 
the North, and Sheridan's men marched in what- 
ever direction they chose, for there was no one to 
oppose them. The country was so bare that not 
a thousand men could have found forage west 
of the Blue Ridge, and Lee abandoned all hope of 
retaining or recovering the region. Shortly after 
this, he broke up Early's army, leaving him only 
one division of infantry and the cavalry. Early, 
indeed, was never intrusted with an important 
command again. As it was unnecessary for Grant 
to retain any large force in the Valley, the greater 
part of Sheridan's army was sent elsewhere. 

It was only eleven weeks since Sheridan had 
entered the Valley, and in this period he had 
fought three pitched battles, besides directing an 
important cavalry encounter, — and every one was 
a complete victory. He had captured sixty guns 
in the open field, and retaken eleven at Cedar 
Creek ; he sent to Washington forty-nine battle- 
flags of the enemy, and his officers took the names 
of thirteen thousand prisoners. Early must have 
lost at least as many more men in killed and 
wounded, while his deserters and stragglers filled 
the forests and farm-houses of the Valley. 

The object of the campaign was as thoroughly 
accomplished as in any series of movements in the 
war, and Sheridan will always be known in his- 
tory as the Hero of the Valley. 

re jumjoincb their- best 

ne carries bis brother 
nd beeJ:^ edL i:he_nest / 




By James Otis. 

Chapter VII. 


IKEY was in great distress of mind when he saw- 
by the movements of the officers that the court 
was about to be opened, and Duddy had not put 
in an appearance. He had an idea that Pinney's 
case would be the first one disposed of, and he 
brought himself to believe that his brother direc- 
tor would be tried, convicted, sentenced, and sent 
to prison before the arrival of their lawyer. 

It was while he was racking his brain in vain to 
find some excuse for Duddy's prolonged absence, 
that the prisoners were brought into the cage 
which is dignified by the name of "dock," and then 
it was that Ikey saw his friend. Poor Pinney ! 
He was driven in with a crowd of men and women, 
much as if he was one of a flock of sheep, and 
he looked thoroughly wretched. His face and 
hands were grimy, his clothing dusty, his hair 
tangled, and the course of the tears down his 
cheeks showed plainly where the dirt had been 
washed away in tiny stripes. As he entered the 
room he looked eagerly about until he saw Ikey, 
who winked vigorously in greeting ; and then he 
turned his head as if he were ashamed of the com- 
pany he was in, as well as of himself. 

It was in vain that Master Jarvis went through a 
series of pantomimic gestures intended to convey 
to the prisoner the fact that all the boys were work- 
ing to aid him ; for Pinney persistently refused to 
look toward his friend again, very much to Ikey's 

Not until after several cases had been disposed 
of did Duddy finally make his appearance, fol- 
lowed by a pleasant-looking, elderly gentleman ; 
and from the smile on Master Foss's face, it was 
evident that he was highly elated with his success 
in finding a lawyer. 

" I 've found a regular swell ! " he whispered to 
Ikey as he tried to crowd himself into the few 
inches of space his friend had been working hard 
to reserve for him. ''I went to see as many as 
twenty, but they would n't have anything to say 
to me ; so I walked 'way down town to a man I 
sell papers to ; he made me tell him everything 
first — that 's what kept me so long — an' then 
he said he guessed he could fix it up all right. 
I would n't wonder if he went in an' yanked Pinney 
out the very first thing." 

Ikey looked earnestly at the gentleman a few 
moments, and seeing that he showed no disposi- 
tion to "yank" Pinney from among the other 
prisoners, he whispered : 

" Did you give him the money ? " 

" No; he said he 'd wait to see what he could 
do, before he took it." 

" Does he know that we '11 pay all he wants, if 
he gets Pinney out o' the scrape ? " 

" Of course ! I told him that before he came 

Much to the surprise and disappointment of both 
boys, the lawyer did not exert himself as they had 
expected. Instead of demanding at once that 
Pinney be discharged, and appearing angry because 
the lad had been arrested, he walked behind 
the railing where the court officers were seated, 
and entered into conversation with them. 

" I don't believe he 's goin' to do a thing," Ikey 
whispered indignantly. 

" He 's not worth much," replied Duddy with a 
look of painful surprise. " I thought he' d clean 
the whole place out ; he acts as if he did n't care 
a cent what happens." 

Before Ikey could reply, Tom arrived with 
another handful of pennies, which he delivered to 
the treasurer. 

" Did you find a lawyer ? " he asked. 

" Yes ; there he is — over there," said Duddy, 
pointing to where the gentleman, whom he be- 
lieved was neglecting his business, had seated 

" Why don't he go to work an' get Pinney out ? " 
Tom asked, after he had taken a deliberate survey 
of the legal gentleman. 

"That 's jest what we don't know," answered 
Duddy uneasily. " He told me he 'd see to every- 
thing, an' now he 's talkin' to the fellers behind 
the railin' as chipper as if they were chums o' his. 
I wish I 'd got somebody else." 

Greatly as the boys regretted the inactivity of 
the lawyer whom the)' had employed, they knew 
very well that it was too late to try to get another, 
and Duddy settled himself back . into the very 
narrow portion of bench allotted him, feeling 
that poor Pinney's case was now hopeless indeed. 
It was while Tom was trying to decide whether he 
would better show the second handful of pennies as 
a means of arousing the attorney into some deci- 
sive action, that the name of Alpenna White was 
called ; and little Pinney, escorted by a very 




large policeman, was led in front of the judge's 

Tom, Duddy, and Ikey did their best to hear 
what was said, but it was impossible for them to 
distinguish a word. And it did not in the least 
appear as if the lawyer was trying to effect 
Pinney's release. On the contrary, he seemed to 
be chatting pleasantly with the judge on some 
subject that had no connection with the discharge 
of the weeping and thoroughly frightened board- 
ing-house director. 

it was not many moments, however, before they 
learned that the lawyer was really doing what he 
had promised ; for suddenly the conversation 
ceased, and one of the officers asked : 

" Is Isaac Jarvis in the room ? " 

Now, of course Ikey was there ; but his attention 
was so closely devoted to Pinney, and the name 
of Isaac was so unfamiliar to him, that he made 
no reply, for the simple reason that he had not 
the slightest idea that they were speaking of or 
to him. 

The officer repeated the question ; but none of 
the three directors of Jenny's boarding-house gave 
any heed to it, until Pinney cried out : 

" Ikey ! Ikey ! Why don't you come up 
here ? " 

Master Jarvis was on his feet in an instant, 
looking quite as frightened as the prisoner, and 
wholly at a loss what to do. 

" Come this way," said the judge; and with his 
knees very shaky, and his lips rather pale, Ikey 
walked toward the witness-stand. He recovered 
his composure somewhat when he saw that both 
the judge and the lawyer were regarding him 

" Were you with the prisoner yesterday after- 
noon ? " asked the judge. 

It was several seconds before Master Jarvis 
understood that Pinney was the person referred 
to, and then he succeeded in saying, in a rather 
awkward fashion : 

" Yes ; you see, I had to be with him 'cause I 'm 
the treasurer, an' I had to pay the money." 

" Pay what money ? " asked the judge, looking 
quite surprised at what appeared to be a new 
phase in the case. 

"Why, the money for November," and Ikey 
was astonished that the officers of the court were 
not better informed regarding the matter. 

"What reason had you for paying money in 
November ? " asked the lawyer. 

"Well, you see he was very sick; anyway, 
that 's what Jenny said, and we fellers raised 
money to buy the stuff that Pinney said would 
cure him." 

" Who is Pinney ? " asked the judge. 

Duddy started to his feet, thoroughly astonished 
at this singular condition of affairs — the officers 
of the court were actually ignorant of the name of 
their prisoner ! 

"There he is!" said Ikey, pointing to the sor- 
rowful-looking boy, who seemed even smaller than 
usual by contrast with the huge officer. 

Duddy sat down again. 

" And who is November? " 

" He 's the baby we found on the doorstep, 
when we first opened the boardin'-house." 

" Now tell us just what you did yesterday after- 
noon," said the judge, who thought it desirable to 
arrive at the facts of the case before the witness 
had time to introduce any more characters into 
his story. 

" We were doin' nothin', 'cause first the baby 
was sick, an' then Pinney was 'rested. An' I 've 
done nothin' to-day, 'cause I had to come here 
with Duddy." 

" You were with the prisoner a short time before 
he was arrested, were you not ? " the lawyer asked. 

" I went with him to get our money for the 
medicine that Jenny's mother would n't let us give 
November ; but when we had a chance to earn 
a dollar for doin' a errand, I went where the other 
fellers was, so 's to tell 'em that Pinney would 
give back what they 'd put up for the stuff. You 
see, it was n't any good, an' Pinney was goin' to lose 
it all himself, 'cause he 'd been the one that 
wanted the rest of us to buy it." 

Ikey had lost his diffident manner, and spoke 
very rapidly until he saw that many in the room, 
even including the judge, were laughing; then 
he stopped suddenly, his face growing quite red. 

" Tell us about the prisoner's going on this 
errand you speak of. Who " 

" I don't know anythin' 'bout that," interrupted 
Ikey; "'cause, you see, I had to hold the bottle 
an' let the other fellers know where Pinney was. 
Sam says " 

" Never mind about anybody but the prisoner." 
The lawyer seemed to be trying to keep from 
laughing and to look stern at the same time. 
" Who asked the prisoner to do the errand ?" 

" I don't know who he was. I never saw him 
before. The man that sold the medicine would 
n't give the money back, an' I know Pinney did n't 
get the dollar, 'cause if I had the bottle, how 
could he get it ? " 

" Now, answer my questions, Isaac, and don't 
try to tell your story until we are ready to hear it." 
This time the lawyer spoke so gravely that Master 
Jarvis was silenced at once. " Who asked Pinney 
to do the errand ? Was it a man or a woman ? 
And what was said ? " 

" There was n't anythin' said," replied Ikey, 




looking as solemn as possible, but fully determined 
to prove at the first opportunity that Pinney did 
not receive any money from the druggist. " We 
was jest walkin' along when the man asked us if 
we wanted to earn a dollar, an' Pinney jumped for 
the chance, 'cause, you see, that was jest what the 
medicine cost, an' the man had said he would n't 
give us the money back, anyhow." 

By this time nearly every one in the court-room, 
except the prisoner and his friends, appeared to be 
very much amused, and it was some moments 
before the examination could be proceeded with. 
But after one of the court officers had loudly com- 
manded silence, the lawyer asked : 

" Do you know why the prisoner was arrested? " 

" I know he did n't get the money back from 
the man, 'cause I had the bottle all the time, so 
how could he ? " 

Ikey was thoroughly in earnest in his effort to 
prove that Pinney did not receive the money from 
the druggist, and was totally at a loss to under- 
stand why it was that every one seemed to think 
so serious a matter comical. 

" Let me explain the case, and then perhaps 
we can persuade you to drop the question of medi- 
cine," said the judge. " Pinney has been arrested 
for having stolen goods in his possession, and all 
we want to know from you is what passed between 
him and the person who hired him to do the 
errand. Tell us all that was said or done at the 
time you left him." 

Ikey was bewildered. He had fully made up 
his mind that the arrest had been caused in 
some way by the attempt to get back the money 
which had been paid for the medicine. It was 
difficult for him to realize that that transaction 
had nothing to do with Pinney's imprisonment. 

After many questions had been asked, Ikey 
succeeded in relating the facts concerning Pinney's 
employment by the stranger; and then the witness 
was allowed to go back to his seat, while the case 
was continued in the same quiet and confidential 
manner in which it had begun. The boys could 
not understand what was going on; but, from 
what they had already heard, they concluded that 
the gentleman whom they had employed to defend 
Pinney was really doing his duty. 

After a short time the directors could see that 
the judge was questioning the prisoner ; and in a 
few moments more they were astonished and over- 
joyed at seeing Alpenna White walk out from 
behind the railing — a free boy. It is really surpris- 
ing that they did not forget where they were, and 
give vent to their joy in cheers. 

Eager to get away from everything that would 
serve to remind him of his imprisonment, Pinney 
walked out of the court-room as rapidly as possible, 

as if he was afraid some one might attempt to 
carry him back to the jail. His three friends fol- 
lowed him closely ; and once out of doors, they 
made up for their enforced silence in the court- 
room by shouting and yelling in a manner that 
was truly deafening. 

"Let's march him down town so 's all the 
fellers can see him," suggested Tom, as he seized 
Pinney by the arm; "then we '11 go home an' 
give him about as high a time as he ever had." 

" How is November ? " asked Pinney, resisting 
Tom's efforts to drag him along, and speaking for 
the first time since he had been released. 

" He 's gettin' better, an' I guess he '11 be jest 
as bright as ever in a day or two. But, come on ! 
Let 's find the other fellers," cried Tom, grabbing 
Pinney's right arm. 

" See here, are you goin' off without squarin' 
things with the lawyer ? " asked Duddy, as he 
clutched Pinney by the left arm, pulling as hard in 
one direction as Tom did in the other. 

"Gracious! I forgot all about him," exclaimed 

" He '11 be out pretty soon, an' then we '11 know 
how much we 've got to pay. I 'm going to have 
him come up to the house some night to dinner, 
'cause he made me tell him all about it, an' asked 
perticularly after Jenny." 

Neither of the directors had an opportunity to 
protest against such hospitality on the part of 
Duddy, even had they been so disposed ; for at 
that moment the gentleman came down the steps. 
While he was yet some distance away, Ikey cried : 

" Say, Mister, how much do we owe you for 
gettin' Pinney out ? " 

"How much money have you?" asked the 
gentleman with a kindly smile. 

"I don't know exactly; but you sit down on the 
steps an' we 'II count it. If there is n't enough here 
we can get more from the fellers." 

" That 's what I said," and Duddy spoke a trifle 
impatiently. "Jest count him out what you've 
got, an' he '11 tell us how much more he wants." 

" You need n't take that trouble," said the 
lawyer, who evidently did not intend to accept 
Ikey's invitation to sit on the steps. "You shall 
pay me by bringing the morning papers to my 
office every day for a week. That will satisfy all 
of us, I fancy." 

" Do you mean that 's all the pay you want? " 
Duddy looked really disappointed because the 
price was so ridiculously small. 

" You will need all your money to get your 
boarding-house well started, and it would be hardly 
right for me to take anything more than the papers 
for what I have done, since your friend would have 
been released even if I had not been here to de- 




fend him. The judge has taken his address, and 
he may be called upon to identify the man who 
sent him on the errand, in case the police succeed in 
capturing the rogue. You need not be frightened 
if an officer should come after him and your treasurer 
some day." 

" Say, mister," said Ikey, with a look of perplex- 
ity, "won't you tell us what Pinney was 'rested 
for? I thought it was 'cause he tried to get the 
money back for the medicine." 

"The man you met on the street hired him to 
carry some stolen papers to the owner, who had 
advertised for them, and who had promised a 
reward. The man hired Pinney because he was 
afraid that the officers were watching for him. He 
made his escape when he saw that the police had 
done such a bungling piece of work as to arrest 
the innocent messenger, instead of waiting until 
the thief had come to receive the money which 
the owner of the papers was to pay. Pinney had 
done nothing wrong ; he was simply unfortunate 
in having been selected as a messenger by the rogue. 
Here is my card. Bring me the morning papers 
for a week, and some day, when we all have leisure, 
come and tell me how the boarding-house prospers." 

Before the boys had time even to thank him, the 
lawyer walked rapidly away, leaving Duddy trying 
to spell out the address that was printed in curiously 
formed letters on a small oblong of pasteboard : 

Chapter VIII. 


iF. H). 33anstoto. 

241 Broadway. 

" I can't seem to get the hang of that kind of 
printin'," said Duddy; "but, whatever his name 
is, he 's a good feller, an' if he don't get papers for 
more 'n a week, it '11 be 'cause I 've forgotten how 
to d'liver 'em." 

" We '11 take turns carryin' 'em to him all 
winter," said Tom with excitement. " An' if he 
will come up to the house to dinner, we '11 s'prise 
him with the good things that we '11 set up. Now 
come down town, 'cause all the fellers will be want- 
in' to know if Pinney 's out." 

The boys started off at full speed, the look of 
fear rapidly disappearing from Master White's 
face as he left the gloomy Tombs building behind 
him. In a short time they were the center of an 
admiring and curious crowd, every one of whom 
was asking questions in his loudest tones, until it 
was impossible to distinguish a single word, so 
great was the confusion. 

When the curiosity of the newsdealers had been 
in a measure satisfied, Master White's greatest 
desire was to go home ; for he not only wanted to 
see November, but he was anxious to prove to 
Mrs. Parsons and Jenny that he was not guilty of 
the charge upon which he had been arrested. But 
when he tried to slip quietly away with Ikey and 
Tom, he found that his newsboy friends and 
acquaintances had no idea of parting with him so 
soon. They at once made known their intention 
of accompanying him to Jenny's boarding-house, 
much to the disgust of all the stockholders, who 
had every reason to believe that Mrs. Parsons 
would not be particularly well pleased at seeing so 
many visitors. Pinney could not protest against 
such a mark of attention, since it was to be done 
in his honor ; but Duddy said promptly : 

"Pinney wants you all to go up with him, of 
course ; but you see he can't ask you to come 
inter the house, 'cause November 's sick." 

" We '11 'scort him up to the house, any 
way," replied one of his admiring friends ; and 
Pinney could only submit with the best grace 

When the party first set out, there was a faint 
attempt to form a regular line of march; but, 
owing to the crowds on the sidewalks, the boys 
were obliged to move along as best they might, 
and looked decidedly more like a mob than a 
triumphal procession. Most of them were feeling 
very happy over Pinney's fortunate escape ; and, 
although they did not realize it, they were making 
a terrible din when they arrived in front of the 

Had Pinney come alone, or with only one or two 
of his friends, Mrs. Parsons would have shown how 
delighted she was at his release, for the old lady 
had a real affection for the boy whose zeal so often 
got him into trouble. But she had just succeeded 
in rocking November to sleep ; the noise which 
the boys outside were making caused her to feel 
slightly provoked ; and what she said when Pinney, 
Duddy, and the other directors entered the room, 
was: "So you succeeded in getting into another 
scrape, did you ? " 

"Yes 'm," replied Pinney meekly; "but I 
had n't done anything wrong, so the judge let me 

"Of course you had n't done wrong," exclaimed 
Jenny. " Mother don't mean anything when she 
talks like that, for she 's as glad as I am to see 
you back safe and sound." 

" Yes, I 'm glad to see you back again, Pinney 
White," said the old lady, looking doubtfully over 




her spectacles at the crowd of boys outside. " I 
don't believe you would, on purpose, do anything 
to be arrested for, but you certainly manage to get 
into more trouble than any boy I ever saw." 

" I s'pose I do," was the reply. 

Then Jenny insisted on knowing the particulars 

'em?" said Duddy, glancing apprehensively toward 
the door of the sitting-room as he spoke. Novem- 
ber's loud cries proved that the inmates of the 
front room had heard the uproar ; and the hearts 
of the directors sunk at the scolding in store for 
them from the old lady. 

'how much do we owe you for gettin' pinney out?" 

of the arrest and trial ; and Ikey, Tom, and Pinney 
all began to tell the story, making such an uproar 
that Mrs. Parsons sent them into the kitchen lest 
they should awaken November. They finally suc- 
ceeded in quieting down sufficiently to give a co- 
herent account of the day's events, and Jenny was 
about to have a business chat with them, when all 
were startled by a loud and prolonged shout from 
the outside. 

"That 's the fellers, an' what shall we do with 

"What are they waiting out there for?" asked 
Jenny, in surprise. 

"Well, you see, they 'scorted Pinney 'round 
here," said Duddy, in explanation; "an' I s'pose 
they think they oughter be asked in." 

"Won't they go away pretty soon?" asked Jenny. 

"I guess not," Duddy said, very decidedly. 
" They 've been wantin' to see the baby ever since 
we fqund him, an' they think that this is a good 

i88 7 .; 



Those on the outside set up another shout at 
this moment, and it was easy to judge, from the 
noise they made, that they were impatient at being 
left out of doors so long. 

" Can't we let 'em in jest for a minute ? " asked 

Jenny ventured into the front room, and when 
she came out again she looked considerably 

" Mother says that since they 've waked Novem- 
ber, they may as well come in ; but you must n't 
let them stay very long, or the baby might get 

"I '11 drive 'em out when you give the word," 
said Sam, arousing for the first time that day into 
something like his old officiousness. 

Duddy acted the part of host by opening the 
street door and shouting : 

" You 've waked the baby up, an' now you may 
as well come in an' look at him ; but Mrs. Parsons 
says you must n't stay very long." 

The eager crowd did not wait for a more urgent 
invitation, and trooped into the house with enough 
noise for a party ten times as large ; but they 
halted, as one boy, when the old lady met them 
with a severe look over the top of her spectacles, 
as they entered the sitting-room. She knew that 
she must exhibit that baby before she could hope 
for peace ; and she stood in the center of the room 
with November held out at arms-length, wishing 
very much that the ordeal were over. 

The boys gazed at the baby as if he was a 
natural curiosity, some going so far as to touch 
him gently with one finger ; but most of them 
kept cautiously out of reach of Mrs. Parsons's hand. 
Not a word was spoken by any one during the 
entire ceremony; but when it was ended, the guests 
showed no disposition to leave the house, and 
stood looking at one another as if they expected 
to be yet further entertained. Sam saw an op- 
portunity to show that he was at least a partial 
master of the establishment. 

"Come right out here if you want to see what 
kind of a place we 've got," he said, pompously 
leading the way into the kitchen, while the old 
lady looked with no kindly eye at the quantity of 
snow and mud that the visitors had brought into 
the room. 

Jenny was much disconcerted by the introduc- 
tion of the strange boys into the kitchen, but Sam 
gave no heed to her uneasiness. He showed the 
guests all the unfurnished as well as the furnished 
rooms, called particular attention to the rules on 
the wall, — taking good care, however, not to say 
for which one he was responsible, — and in every 
possible way acted the part of host to the entire 
satisfaction of himself, if of no one else. 

The other directors followed their visitors about, 
answering questions and pointing out the general 
advantages of the building, but not caring to appear 
too prominent in the matter. After the house had 
been thoroughly inspected, and the guests were 
about to take their departure, Sam said, as if the 
idea had just occurred to him : 

" If you fellers will hold on a little while, I '11 
have Jenny get a bang-up dinner, an' then you 
can see how well we live." 

As a matter of course, every boy in the party 
was only too willing to accept the invitation, and 
the directors were looking at one another in 
speechless astonishment, when from the sitting- 
room Mrs. Parsons called out sharply : 

" Pinney White, are you asking all those boys 
to dinner ?" 

" I was n't a-sayin' a word," replied Pinney 
quickly, thinking it hard, indeed, that he should 
be accused of every disagreeable thing. 

" I am goin' to let 'em see what kind of a dinner 
Jenny can cook," Sam said loftily, as if asking 
twenty or thirty boys to dine with him was a 
trifling matter. 

" Indeed, you are going to do nothing of the 
kind," exclaimed the old lady, now evidently very 
angry. And the guests, alarmed by the sharp 
tone of her voice, declined the invitation in a very 
practical manner by fleeing precipitately from the 
house. They halted about a block away, when 
Jeppy Jones said, with a sigh of relief: 

" She ain't as sweet as candy, an' that 's a fact ! " 

At the house, the directors were gathered in the 
kitchen like criminals, waiting for the old lady to 
pass judgment upon them ; but she was quite her 
old pleasant self again, as soon as the guests had 
taken their hurried departure. She spoke so kindly 
to Pinney about his release from prison that Sam 
silently resolved to give her a happy surprise some 
day by bringing a small and select party of boys — 
say about a dozen — home to dinner. 

Jenny soon called the attention of the directors 
to business, by saying: 

" Now that Pinney is out of his trouble, and the 
baby is nearly well, we must try to furnish another 
room ; for the more boarders we can take, the 
more money we can make." 

" It seems to me that you 're allers talkin' 'bout 
money," said Sam petulantly. " With what we 've 
given. I could 'a' started a house twice as large as 

" We 've given ! " repeated Tom impatiently. " I 
s'pose you think you 've put in all you agreed to, 
don't you?" 

"Well, I 've come pretty near it," and Sam 
assumed his most impressive manner. " I 've 
paid as much as you have, any way." 




"Ikey, how do the 'counts stand?" asked 

The treasurer, after some trouble, owing to his 
many pockets, succeeded in finding his book, 
which began to look rather the worse for wear; 
and after a severe mental and digital calculation, 
he replied : 

" In the first place, we owe for a week's board. 
I Ye paid my dollar for it ; but the rest have n't 
squared up yet. Then on the ten dollars every one 
was to put in, Jack owes two thirty-nine, an' Sam 
has only paid four eighty, and two dollars of that 
I lent him. Tom an' Pinney an' I have given 
Jenny our share." 

" I 've paid as much as anybody else. You 've 
forgot to put it down if it ain't there," said Sam in 
a reproachful tone. "What about the money 
I gave this mornin' to help Pinney outer the 
scrape ? " 

" You put in jest seven cents," said Tom. "We 
did n't have to use it, an' here 's your cash." 

A broad smile greeted the announcement of 
Master Tousey's contribution ; but Pinney has- 
tened to say : 

" We '11 get more money by to-morrow, an' 
p'r'aps Sam '11 have some, too, by that time." 

"If he has n't, he 's got to sell his share in the 
house ! " Tom spoke very decidedly. 

" I would n't turn him out," said Jenny quickly. 
" You know he did really help start the house, and 
it does n't seem fair." 

"I think he ought to pay up or leave," said 
Ikey in a matter-of-fact tone. " He won't work, 
that 's what 's the matter." 

" Well, s'pose I don't want to work, whose busi- 
ness is it ? " asked Sam. 

"It 's our business if you don't pay what you 
owe," said Tom, quietly but firmly. 

" S'posen I want to sell my share, who 's got the 
money to pay me? " inquired Sam, with the air of 
a millionaire capitalist. 

" Duddy Foss '11 take it any time," declared the 
treasurer. "He said so. You owe Ikey two dol- 
lars, an' Jenny a dollar for board, so that would 
leave only one eighty comin' to you." 

Sam hesitated ; he knew that Duddy could buy 
him out, and he felt that he must work or sell. 

" I '11 tell you to-morrow what I '11 do," he said 
sulkily, and left the house, slamming the street 
door behind him. 

" We 'd better all go down town, if we expect 
to get any money for Jenny," suggested Tom. 
" Come on, fellers, an' let 's make up for the time 
we lost this morning." 

The other boys followed Tom out of the room, 
and Jenny was left to plan how she would furnish 
the remainder of her boarding-house. 

When the directors came home at night they 
were in the best of spirits. Business had been 
good during the afternoon, and even Sam had 
been successful ; but since he did not offer to pay 
any portion of his indebtedness, the others con- 
cluded that he had decided to sell his boarding- 
house stock to Duddy. 

When the household retired to rest, all, with 
the possible exception of Master Tousey, felt that 
they were on the high road to success. 

The city clocks were striking the hour of mid- 
night, when Tom was suddenly aroused with a 
queer sensation in his throat and lungs. Sitting 
bolt-upright in bed, he tried to understand why 
he was awake. He could hear no unusual noise ; 
his room-mates' heavy breathing told that they 
were wrapped in slumber. He was beginning to 
believe that he had been startled by some vivid 
dream, when he became aware that his eyes were 
smarting severely, and in a second he knew by 
the odor and his difficulty in breathing that the 
room was full of smoke. He wondered why a fire 
had been left in the stove, got out of bed grum- 
bling at somebody's carelessness, and started for 
the kitchen to fix the draft. 

He could now hear a strange, crackling sound, 
and the handle of the kitchen door was hot as he 
tried to turn it. Only by exerting all his strength 
could he force the door open ; and as it swung on 
its hinges, a mass of flame appeared to dart from 
the very center of the room. 

"Fire! Fire!" he shouted, as he ran back 
and shook his companions to arouse them, and 
then rushed to Mrs. Parsons's room, and hurried 
upstairs where the boarders were sleeping. 

From the time Tom had awakened until every 
one in the building was aroused, hardly more 
than two minutes had elapsed; yet in those few 
seconds the flames, favored by the open doors, 
had made such progress that it seemed as if the 
whole interior of the house was on fire. 

" Save the furniture ! " Tom shouted, as he saw 
the directors rushing out of doors with some of 
their clothing under their arms; "we can get 
some of the things out if we work quick ! " 

This appeared to bring Ikey and Pinney to a 
portion of their senses, at least, and they halted in 
the open doorway to put on some of their clothing ; 
while Tom darted into the clouds of smoke that 
filled the directors' sleeping-room, after his own 
garments. He found it impossible to enter even 
so far as the bed. Blinded, half-suffocated, and 
nearly overcome by the heat and vapor, he stag- 
gered back into the hallway just as Duddy leaped 
down nearly the entire flight of stairs, with several 
articles of wearing apparel in his arms. 

" Where 're your clothes?" he asked. 



" In there," Tom stammered as he reeled toward able articles of the not very expensive furniture ; but 

the street door. as they threw nearly everything out of the window, 

" Put these on," cried Duddy as he threw a pair they caused nearly as much damage as the fire, 
of trousers over Tom's shoulders, and flung the It was not for many moments that the directors 

remainder of his burden out of doors. could continue their almost useless labor, for the 

By this time Ikey and Pinney were trying to save flames were sweeping through the rooms with a 



some of the household goods, and had started for fury that seemed resistless, and the boys were soon 
the landlady's room, as Mrs. Parsons and Jenny, forced to retreat to the sidewalk, where, with the 
the former carrying November and the latter with remainder of the family and a rapidly gathering 
her arms full of clothing, came running out. crowd, they stood silently and sorrowfully witness- 

The boys worked with a will to save the most valu- ing the destruction of Jenny's boarding-house. 

(To be continued.) 




Bv Edith Evelyn Bigelow. 


There is nothing sadder or more desolate than 
to be a stray dog in a great city like London. 
You may think you have seen trouble and been 
miserable ; but listen to me, and you '11 soon see 
that your trials have been nothing to mine. There 
never was a more pampered pet than I was ; and 
I thought I had a right to be spoiled, being a 
thoroughbred fox terrier of perfect pedigree and 
good habits. I had no faults except yielding to a 
strong temptation to nip the cat a little when she 
put her back up at me. I was owned by the prettiest 
lady in London, and was exercised every day by 
either the footman or my mistress herself, with a 
sharp eye kept on me, lest any of those wicked dog- 
stealers should whip me up, and run off with me. 

My only sorrow was, that I could not always 
make myself understood. Why parrots and 
magpies (horrid things!) should be gifted in the 
conversational line above their betters, I can't 

Mag would sit in her cage and croak, "Wake 
up !" as distinctly as a human being could speak; 
and my mistress would laugh and say, " Is n't she 
clever?" But when I barked and thought I was 
saying real words (only she could n't understand), 
she would cry, " Be quiet ! " and give me a tap on 
the ear. That seemed unjust to me. 

One day in summer, my mistress came down- 
stairs, with her coat and hat on, and took me up 
in her arms and kissed me. I licked her face and 
wagged my tail, thinking I was going for a drive, 
for I saw the brougham standing at the door. 
But she dropped a tear on my head, and said: 

" Oh, John, I can't bear to leave him ! " 

Then Master said, " Nonsense, my dear, the 
cook will look after him." And they went away, 
my dear mistress looking back and saying, "Be 
a good dog till I come home!" 

All this took me by surprise, and I felt very mis- 
erable. The tears came to my eyes, and I turned 
away for fear that hateful cat should see me cry- 
ing; for if she had, she might have plucked up 
heart to scratch me in return for all my sly nips. 

Well, I lay for some time thinking how lonely I 
should be with only old Mouser (that was Mrs. 
Puss's name) and cook, both of whom I hated. 
Presently I decided to start off when no one was 
looking, and follow my mistress. I was younger 
and more foolish then than now, and did- not 
consider what a large place London was. I had 
a keen nose, and thought I could track my lady, 
with the help of my eyes and nose. 

So I waited my chance. Presently the parlor- 
maid came downstairs. She opened the door, and 
before she could say " knife ! " I was off like a shot, 
down the street. She called after me like a crazy 
person, but nobody minded her, and I ran till my 
breath was nearly gone. Then I sat down and 
rested awhile. But a man with a dirty necker- 
chief on, and a bad eye, came sidling up to me, 
and said, "Come here, sir," in a soft, enticing 
voice. I knew he was a dog-stealer ; for I had seen 
his like before ; so I scuttled off again, and in my 
fright forgot to notice which way I went. 

Then I began to look and nose about. I could 
find no lady who had a face like that of my dear 

i88 7 .; 


62 1 

mistress. People looked at me ; the ladies said 
" What a dear little fox terrier! " and one gentle- 
man stopped and bent down to see if I had a 
collar on. When I ran out I had just been washed, 
and so I had left it at home. Presently I got into 
a part of the town where there were lots of pale 
little children playing and fighting on the side- 
walk. Some horrid boys pursued me, and tried 
to fasten an old tin kettle to my tail ; then when 
I ran all the faster, they shouted " Mad dog ! " and 
a policeman — or, as we say, a "bobby" — com- 
menced to chase me. My poor heart beat so, I 
thought I should have died; but I 
struggled along, though, being a 
pet house-dog, I was n't in good 
running condition, and had rather 
too much fat on my ribs for a 
race. I gave the "bobby" the 
slip, after all, and at last hid un- 
der an archway. By this time it 
was growing dark, and I began 
to be hungry and lonely. 

If the cat had been there, I 
would n't have nipped her ! It 
is wonderful how misfortune soft- 
ens the heart ! Can you imagine 
how miserable I was ? My nice 
coat was all torn and soiled, and 
the several frights I had had were 
enough to tire even an experi- 
enced dog, not to mention the 
running in and out among hansom cabs. I could 
not help whining quietly to myself. After a time, 
one of the figures hurrying by stopped and came 
up to me. It was a man, and I should say a gen- 
tleman, for, as near as I could see in the dusk, he 
was dressed like Master. 

" Hullo ! " said he. " What have we here ? " 

He stooped and picked me up. His touch was 
so kind that I did n't even growl. 

" Alost dog ! A case for the Battersea Home," 
he exclaimed. 

Now, I had heard cook tell dreadful things about 
" Homes" and " Institutions," and when I heard 
my new acquaintance speak of a Home, I gave 
a growl and tried to get away ; but the gentleman 
was strong, and carried me off with him. He 
hailed a cab and got in, still holding me. After 
driving for some time we stopped, and my friend 
(or enemy, I did n't yet know which he might be) 
took me into a house, evidently his own. As soon 
as we were inside the hall, a funny fat little boy 
with curls came tumbling out of the nearest room 
shouting, " Here 's father, wid a doggy ! " and 
began to pull me about. As he did n't hurt me, 
and seemed pleased to see me, I licked his fat 
little hand, and he screamed with glee. Then a 

tall lady joined us and asked where I had come 

" I found him in Fleet street," said the gentle- 
man, " and to-morrow I shall take him to Batter- 
sea. He 's evidently a valuable dog, and must 
have strayed away from his owners. If they don't 
claim him — I '11 buy him for you if you like." 

" The very thing!" said the lady. " See how 
Totty is petting him." 

Then I was taken upstairs into the drawing- 
room, and allowed to sit on a rug. The lady- 
kindly gave me some water, and I felt very much 


happier since I had heard that nothing terrible 
was to happen to me ; besides, it was very comfort- 
ing to be recognized as a valuable dog. I was so 
tired that I slept for a long time ; in fact, it was 
morning when I awoke. My new friends gave me 
some breakfast, and the gentleman started out 
with me again in a cab. We drove a long way 
this time, to a very ugly part of the town, where 
everything was grimy and dirty and ever so many 
trains were whizzing along across bridges built over 
the street. 

We drew up at a queer sort of place, with a 
door like the gate of a stable-yard, and a small 
door next it, on which was a brass plate. On it 
I read, — for I am an educated dog, let me tell you, 
and am sorry for those who have n't had my ad- 
vantages, — " Home for Lost Dogs." We went in 
through the big gate, but turned to the side and 
entered by a small door into a room where two 
men sat, one at a desk and the other at a large 
table. My gentleman spoke a few words to the 
men, and presently left me with them. Then an- 
other man came in. He was very tall, dressed in 
black, with a cap on his head and a big whip in 
his hand. His face was kind, and so he did not 
frighten me. He carried me away and walked 




with me down a place, on one side of which was 
a line of cages full of all sorts of dogs. Some of 
them were ill-bred, vulgar creatures, especially a 
low, bandy-legged bulldog, who jeered at me and 
called me names. I was placed in a cage with 
a poodle, a fox terrier, two pugs, and a dachs- 
hund — the last about a yard long, with no legs 
to speak of, but a great opinion of himself. They 
all set up a roar when I arrived, and asked me a 
lot of questions, — who I was, where I came from, 
and the like. I was very haughty with them at 
first, wishing to show my breeding, for I remem- 
bered how a lady, who cook said was a duchess, 
always behaved to my mistress when she called. 
But they were so good-natured that I soon forgot 
to be proud, for I was full of curiosity about my 
new home, and wanted to ask questions. 

"I am going to be bought," said I, "if my peo- 
ple don't come for me." 

The pug shook his head, and gave a sort of 
snort. Pugs always are short of breath. 

"Don't be too sure!" said he, with his black 
nose in the air, and his great goggle eyes turned 
toward me. His remark was so rude that I turned 
my back on him. The poodle sidled up to me 
and whispered: "We'll all be killed in three 
days, if we 're not sent for ! " I gave a yelp of 

" My goodness ! " said I, "what do you mean ? " 

"There 's one terrible room here," said he ; " if 
a dog once goes into it, he never comes out alive." 

At that I turned quite ill. Had I come all 
this way, only to be butchered? 

" How do you know ? " I gasped. 

" The cats told me." 

"What cats?" 

" Do you see that door? That 's where the 
Cats' Boarding-house and Home is; and last night 
when the door was open one of the boarders told 
me. She had it from the keeper. Perhaps 
you '11 be kept longer than the usual time, as you 
are a good sort ; but I 'm a mongrel and must die 

He gave a patient sigh, as if he had made up 
his mind to it. " You are very quiet about it," I 
said ; "I should yell all to-day if I expected to be 
killed to-morrow." 

" Yelling would do no good," he replied. " I 
should be called to order now, and killed just the 
same, when the time came. The truth is, I have 
been so ill-treated that I 'd rather die than go back 
to my master. I am not much to look at, but I 
can do all manner of tricks, and I traveled with a 
circus. My master was the clown, and was what 
human beings call a brute, though why they shame 
us by giving wicked people that name, I can't 

The poor poodle felt so sad that I didn't know 
what to say to him ; for how could I comfort him ? 

Just then the dachshund looked around and 
said, " I wish that cur would stop that sniveling. 
I can't hear myself think." 

With that I jumped at him and gave him a 
smart nip on the ear. Then there was a row ! 
We were in one great mass, struggling and biting, 
till the keeper's whip came cutting in among us, 
and we were forced to be quiet. 

That night the door of the Cats' Boarding-house 
and Home was left open by mistake, and while I 
lay, trying to sleep, I heard a little "mew" which 
sounded familiar. I gave a little whine in reply, 
thinking I should find out whether I had a friend 
amongst the pussies. 

" Who are you ? " I asked, softly. 

A little voice mewed out, " Don't you remem- 
ber the fat kitten next door ? " 

" Yes, indeed ! " I said; for, indeed, that kitten 
had been the only cat I had ever really approved 

" I was whipped for stealing cream, and I ran 
away. Oh, how many times I 've wished myself 
at home ! " 

" Have you suffered ? " I asked. 

"Suffered?" said she. "I am as thin as a 
mouse, and supported here by what visitors throw 
into the box that 's fastened to our cage ; and 
there 's a little fiendish black tabby here that gets 
all my food away." 

"Poor thing!" I said, my heart feeling very 

" Never mind," said she, plaintively. " We '11 
all be killed day after to-morrow." 

The same old story ! " Tell me all about it," 
I said. 

" There is a room here where the dogs and 
cats are put, and as soon as they get in they begin 
to snore, and never wake up." 

1 could n't help shivering at these words, for it 
is an awful thing to lie in the dark and think of 
your own death. The man who keeps order in 
the cat-house heard us talking, and shut the door; 
so I learned no more that night. 

The next day the poodle came up to me, and cried, 
and kissed me on the nose, saying I had been kind 
to him, and he wanted to thank me before he died. 

I tried to cheer him a bit, when, suddenly, two 
ladies came walking by. 

" Stand up and beg," I whispered. And so he 

" What a jolly poodle ! " said one lady. " The 
very thing for Charlie. Is he for sale ? " 

The keeper, who stood near, said: 

"He was to be killed to-day, Madam, but you 
can have him." 

i88 7 .] 



In a few minutes more my fortunate friend was 
taken out of the cage and carried off, no doubt to 
as comfortable a home as the one which I had left. 

Nobody came for the pugs or the dachshund ; 
but, toward evening, whom should I see but cook, 
with her jolly red face, coming along and looking 
anxiously at all the dogs. 

I barked as loud as possible, and says cook, 
"That 's him!" Cook was apt to be rather 
ungrammatical at times. When they got me out 
of the cage, I licked her face, as if I 'd loved her 
all my life. She was so pleased to see me that 
she kissed my head and patted me all the time. 

"Now, Mr. Keeper," said she, " there 's a kitten 
missing from our next-door neighbor's, and it 's 
just possible she 's in the cat-house, so I '11 take a 
glance, if you 're agreeable." 

Then I was glad, for I did n't relish the idea of 
leaving the only well-behaved cat of my acquaint- 
ance to be made away with, and nobody the wiser. 

In we went, and the poor kitten saw cook and flew 
at the cage, trying to get to her. There were a 
number of cats with her, and the label over the 
top said " Female Strays." The boarders were on 
the other side of the room. Their masters and 
mistresses had sent them there to be kept safely 
during their absence from town. 

Well, we had the kitten out in no time, and she 
and cook and I all went home together. Cook 
talked to us all the way, as if we understood her, — 
and so we did, only she did n't know it. 

That is the end of my trials ; but I suffered 
enough in a day or two to last some time. 

Since then I have never left my happy home, 
except in the care of some one. Sometimes in the 
dark, I can't help thinking about that room where 
the poor pugs and the dachshund must have died, 
and the thought makes my paws cold. 

But the poodle is happy. I saw him last week 
driving in a carriage. 

By Susan P. Swoope. 

Janie sat on the window-seat, 
Watching the waving, golden wheat, 
Watching the bees flit to and fro, 
Watching the butterflies come and go, 

Raindrops, listen to what I say: 
You 'vc worked enough ; now stop and play ; 
You 've watered the flowers, grass, and wheat, 
And settled the dust all down the street; 

Watching the flowers, red and white, 
Watching the birds in their airy flight, 
Watching the gentle summer shower 
As it fell on field and tree and flower. 

Make the clouds break, and let the sun 
Shine out once more — Let 's have some fun ! 
Make me a rainbow — make it soon ; 
I 've been waiting all the afternoon ! " 

Tired little Janie saw the view, — 
Idly wishing for something new ; 
Softly she tapped the window-pane, 
And spoke aloud to the falling rain : 

The raindrops heard in their busy dance ; 
The sun shone out and gave them a chance ; 
They seized the rays with their fingers deft, 
And wove the bright-hued warp and weft ; 

Then hung it up in the eastern sky, 
A beautiful ribbon of brilliant dye, — 
One end rested upon the hill, 
The other went down behind the mill. 




By Palmer Cox. 

While Brownies once were rambling through 

Where thick and tall the timber grew, 

The hum of bees above their head 

To some remarks and wonder led. 

They gazed at branches in the air 

And listened at the roots with care, 

And soon a pine of giant size 

Was found to hold the hidden prize. 

Said one : " Some wild bees here have made 

Their home within the forest shade, 

Where neither fox nor prying bear 

Can paw the treasure gathered there." 

Another spoke : " You 're quick and bright. 

And generally judge matters right; 

But here, my friend, you 're all astray, 

And like the blind mole grope your way. 

But still their queen's directing cry 
The bees heard o'er the clamor high ; 
And held their bearing for this pine 
As straight as runs the county line. 

I chance well to remember still, 
How months ago, when up the hill, 
A farmer near, with bell and horn, 
Pursued a swarm one sunny morn. 
The fearful din the town awoke, 
The clapper from his bell he broke ; 

With taxes here, and failures there, 
The man can ill such losses bear. 
In view of this, our duty 's clear: 
To-morrow night we '11 muster here, 
And when we give this tree a fall, 
In proper shape we '11 hive them all, 



And take the queen and working throng 
And lazy drones where they belong." 

Next evening, at the time they set, 
Around the pine the Brownies met 
With tools collected, as they sped 
From mill and shop and farmer's shed ; 
While some, to all their wants alive, 
With ready hands procured a hive. 

And then the hive was made to rest 
In proper style above the nest, 
Until the queen and all her train 
Did full and fair possession gain. 

Then 'round the hive a sheet was tied, 
That some were thoughtful to provide, 
And off on poles, as best they could, 
They bore the burden from the wood. 

Ere work began, said one : " I fear 
But little sport awaits us here ; 
Be sure a trying task we '11 find, 
For bees are fuss and fire combined. 
And take him in his drowsy hour, 
Or when palavering to the flower, 
The bee, however wild or tame, 
In every land is much the same ; 
And those will rue it who neglect 
To treat the insect with respect." 

Ere long, by steady rasp and blow, 
The towering tree was leveled low; 

Vol. XIV.— 44. 

But trouble, as one may divine, 
Occurred at points along the line. 
'T was bad enough on level ground, 
Where, now and then, one exit found ; 
But when they came to rougher road, 
Or climbed the fences with their load, 
Then numbers of the prisoners there 
Came trooping out to take the air, 
And managed straight enough to fly 
To keep excitement running high. 

With branches broken off to suit, 
And grass uplifted by the root, 




In vain some daring Brownies tried 
To brush the buzzing plagues aside. 
Said one, whose features proved to all 
That bees had paid his nose a call : 
" I 'd rather dare the raging main, 
Than meddle with such things again." 

And when at last the fence they found 
That girt the farmer's orchard 'round, 
And laid the hive upon the stand, 
There hardly was, in all the band, 
A single Brownie who was free 
From some reminders of the bee. 

//,■ /;, ' ..,:,., '; ' .. \ 

" The urgent calls," another cried, 
" Of duty still must rule and guide, - 
Or in the ditch the sun would see 
The tumbled hive for all of me." 

But thoughts of what a great surprise 
Ere long would light the farmer's eyes 
Soon drove away from every brain 
The slightest thought of toil or pain. 





By George J. Manson. 

A Banker and Broker. 

The business of banking and that of brokerage 
are nearly always carried on together. A banker 
is a man who, like a regularly organized bank, 
receives deposits of money which he holds subject 
to drafts and checks. He negotiates loans. He 
buys bonds, stocks, and securities of all sorts for 
his customers. He pays the coupons of railroad 
and other companies. He takes charge of estates 
for trustees and executors and, in short, acts as 
the financial agent for individuals and corpora- 

The broker buys and sells stocks and bonds of 
railroads and miscellaneous companies. Generally 
he makes a specialty of some particular stocks or 
bonds. There are brokers in grain, coal, petro- 
leum, mining stocks, flour, real estate, and almost 
everything that can be bought and sold. The 
broker does not buy the commodities in which he 
deals to sell them again at a profit ; but he acts 
as the agent for people who have goods for sale. 
He makes his money by receiving a "commission," 
which is a certain proportion of the amount received 
for the goods. At present we will consider only 
bankers and brokers who deal solely in money, 
stocks, and bonds. 

The boy who enters the office of a banker and 
broker starts at the age of thirteen or fourteen. 
He will receive three dollars a week to begin with. 
He will have to go down to the office early and 
open it ; but he will not have to sweep it, as all 
such work is done by the janitor and his assistants. 
He will have to run errands much of the time, see 
that the circulars announcing the sales of stock, 
which are constantly coming in during the day, 
are put in their proper places; and he will make 
comparisons of stock, which means that he will 
see if the office account of the day's transactions 
agrees with the similar accounts of the firms with 
whom his house has had dealings. He will go 
often to the Stock Exchange, where he will famil- 
iarize himself with its workings. In the meantime 
he must be learning to write quickly a neat, clerkly 
hand, and to be quick at figures. A boy must be 
very bright to succeed in a banker's and broker's 
office in New York, or in any other large city. 

The boy will do boys' work for about two or 
three years, when, if he deserves it, he will be 

* Copyright by G. 

promoted to the position of clerk. He will soon 
acquire the rudiments of book-keeping, beginning 
with the simplest book, which is the one in which 
are entered the purchases and sales of stocks made 
by the house. During the day, he will make out 
"notices" of sales to be sent to customers. His 
salary will now be from five hundred to one thou- 
sand dollars a year. When he gets to be head 
book-keeper or cashier, he will receive from 'one 
thousand five hundred to five thousand dollars, 
depending on the business done by the firm. Or 
he may be made the manager of some branch 
office of the firm, which is better still, and carries 
with it a large measure of responsibility and an 
excellent salary. 

Some one has called Wall Street " the golden 
artery " of the country. You might call the Stock 
Exchange its " pulse," for the important transactions 
had there indicate the state of the financial health 
of the country. The building is really on Broad 
Street, but there is an entrance on Wall Street, 
a few doors from Broadway. Enter this door 
and go up a flight of iron stairs; but do not be 
disconcerted at the sound of what appears to be a 
large number of men quarreling, for they are the 
very people you are going to see. Passing through 
another door, you find yourself in a high gallery 
overlooking a long hall, or room, in which from 
two hundred to eight hundred men are walking 
about or standing in groups. At the other end 
of the apartment is a similar gallery. One side 
of the room is used by the various telegraph offices, 
each company having a space set apart for its own 
use, and a force of messengers dressed in blue 
uniforms. On the other side of the room there is 
a platform, like a pulpit, from which the chairman 
of the Exchange presides. The wooden floor has 
no covering other than the countless tiny bits of 
white paper, used memoranda, torn up by the 

Before making this visit, you have probably been 
told that it costs from twenty-five thousand dol- 
lars to thirty thousand dollars to get a " seat" in 
the Exchange. Your first thought on looking at 
the scene below will possibly be, " Where are the 
seats ? " For, the only seats in the whole place 
are a few ranged in circular forms around a num- 
ber of iron standards. On the top of each standard 
is a sign reading, "Ohio and Miss.," "Omaha," 

J Manson, 1884. 




" Lou. and Nashville," and so on. These are 
abbreviated names of certain important stocks ; 
and the brokers who deal largely in any one of 
them may usually be found near their respective 
standards. A great many more stocks than are 
indicated by these signs, however, are dealt in each 
day, and the few seats around these standards 
will accommodate only about thirty or forty men. 
The fact is, the Stock Exchange grew too large 
to allow seating the members. Years ago there 
were seats, but now the term "a seat" really 
means the privilege of going into this room for the 
purpose of doing business with the other members. 
It is now not a very easy matter to become a mem- 
ber of the Stock Exchange. The membership of 
eleven hundred is now full, and it is only possible 
to get a seat by purchasing from a retiring mem- 
ber, or from the heirs of a deceased member. 
Then, too, an applicant must be in good health, 
because the Exchange carries an insurance of ten 
thousand dollars on the life of every member, 
which his heirs receive on his death. In addi- 
tion, to become a member, a man must be of good 
character, be free from debt, and fulfill certain 
other requirements. 

Looking down from the visitors' gallery, the 
scene strikes one as at once amusing and bewil- 
dering. Some men are walking apparently aim- 
lessly about. Others walk fast, and appear to be 
looking for some one. Now and then a man cries 
out a word or two which you can not understand, 
whereupon a crowd of bystanders press about him. 
There is a short conversation, and the crowd of 
men disappears as quickly as it came together. 
When a broker disposes of some stock, he cries 
out, " Sold ! " which means that the transaction 
is completed. Every now and then, you will 
notice among the men in some parts of the room 
what boys call " horse-play." You may see a big, 
strong man take a small man and, after wrestling 
with him for a short time, quietly seat him on the 
floor. Other members may knock off the hats of 
their brother members, a kind of sport (if that is 
the name for it) which seems to be peculiarly fas- 
cinating to brokers. When these groups, or 
crowds, gather, you may notice that the men in the 
rear rows push those in front of them so hard that 
the two or three men in the center who are doing 
all the talking are pressed together so close that 
their noses almost touch. But everyone is good- 
natured, and some are jolly and boisterous. And 
the most curious part of the scene is that all these 
men are at work. One peculiarity you will notice : 
each man carries in his hand a small memoran- 
dum-book or a pad of paper, on which every now 
and then he makes a note. A man in passing" 
another may make an offer of a certain stock, say at 1 

54^ ; the other will say, " Give you S4H- " Quick 
as a flash it may be taken, and a sale is made that 
may involve thousands of dollars. All these trans- 
actions are done so quickly and amid so much con- 
fusion that you would not be apt to notice a quarter 
of them. 

" Would a boy who started in the office ever be 
able to enter the Stock Exchange?" some one 
may ask. 

He would, if his parents or friends bought him 
a seat. If he was poor, but unusually clever, it is 
possible that some rich man who liked to speculate 
in Wall Street, who had a high opinion of his 
ability, would offer to go into partnership with 
him, and let him be the active member of the 
concern. In other words, the rich man would buy 
a seat for the clerk, and put capital into the con- 
cern, and the poor young man would give in re- 
turn his experience and his brains. There have 
been a great many cases of that kind. 

Or a young man, after having risen to be head 
book-keeper or cashier of a firm, may become so 
valuable that he is taken into the firm as office 
partner. Or a clerk of popular manners, who 
has made a great many friends among business- 
men and speculators, may be taken into a new 
firm for the sake of the customers he can bring in. 

The banker and broker must be thoroughly 
posted on all financial and stock matters, not only 
in this country, but in foreign lands as well. He 
must be able to judge how current events will be 
likely to affect the stock and money market. He 
must know the inside history of all the companies 
in the stock of which he deals, so as to be able 
to give good advice to his customers who want 
to buy or sell. In short, he must be a financial 

A great many terms have come into use in Wall 
Street to express the method of doing business 
there. Some of them sound very much like slang; 
but they are very useful in enabling the brokers to 
express complicated ideas in very few words, and 
might be called a species of conversational short- 

Every one has heard of the "bulls" and 
" bears " of Wall Street. The bulls are those 
brokers who are anxious to advance the prices 
of stocks. The bears, on the other hand, are 
those who, wishing to buy, or for other reasons, 
are anxious to reduce prices as low as possible. 
The bulls are always trying to toss prices up ; the 
bears are always bearing down on values. 

This article would not be complete, did I not say 
a few words about the temptations of the broker's 
life. From the very start, the boy will be in- 
trusted with large sums of money to carry to the 
bank or to customers. He may be in an office 



where bank-bills and shining gold are within his 
reach all the time ; and he will be so completely 
absorbed in the subject of stocks, bonds, and 
money, that it will be somewhat strange if he does 
not soon begin to look at the getting of money as 
the most important business of life. And when 
he is a little older and becomes clerk or cashier, 
he will be exposed to the temptation to increase his 
income by stock-gambling — " speculating," as it 
is called — on his own account. Such ventures are 
of course very hazardous, and on all accounts should 
be shunned. A broker requires great strength of 
character to resist the temptation to get wealthy 
by false methods ; and a boy should think long 
and well before he adopts the calling. 

For the broker's business is at best unstable. 
The work is done quickly in the midst of great 
excitement and at " high pressure," as we say. As 
money comes quickly and easily to the broker, it is 
not so highly prized as if it were earned by the 
toil which produces a visible result, and it usually 
goes as easily as it comes. Brokers, of course, 
defend their own occupation. They will tell you 
that their services as agents in securing stocks and 
bonds are needed ; but they will not deny that 
stock-brokerage would cease to be a profitable 
business, except to a very few firms, if people were 
to stop speculating in securities. Of course, there 
are many men in this business who have risen to 
wealth and to eminence as financiers, who would 
scorn to do a mean or dishonorable act. All 
honor to such men, because they must often have 
been sorely tempted to do wrong. 

I would not be unjust to this large class of men, 
so many of whom have personal traits which we 
are bound to admire. They are open-handed with 
their means. Their word to one another is as 
good as a bond. In fact, a large proportion of 
the business transacted upon the Exchange is 
done without written contract, and depends solely 
upon the good faith of the members concerned. 
Their promptness to respond on public appeals 
for aid or sympathy is proverbial. Yet all this 
should have no influence upon a boy who is de- 
ciding whether or no he shall be a broker. 

— A boy may enter an office that does nothing 
but a strictly banking business. 

After he has thoroughly familiarized himself 
with his boy's work, and has shown himself to be 
quick and accurate with figures, and has mastered 
the elements of book-keeping, he will probably be 
promoted, from time to time, to positions of in- 
creasing responsibility, until eventually he may 
become cashier. The position of cashier in a 
banking-house is a very important one. He re- 
ceives and pays out all the money, and has charge 
of all the accounts. 

A young man has about the same chance of 
becoming a real banker as he has of becoming a 
broker, — to be either, he must, as a rule, have 
money or influence ; though there are not a few 
instances where men, by their own individual ef- 
forts, have advanced themselves. 

A successful banker must be a very well informed 
man in regard to certain matters bearing directly 
on his business. If he negotiates loans for cities, 
he should be thoroughly posted on laws bearing 
upon the issues of bonds in which he may wish to 
deal. Dealing with railroads, he should know all 
about railroad law and the laws governing corpo- 
rations generally. He must, of course, be familiar 
with the banking-laws of his own State and of the 
United States. He must know all about the earn- 
ings and expenses of railroads and corporations 
of which he may be the financial agent, or in 
which his clients may be interested. He should 
have a general knowledge of political economy, 
and learn to judge of the effect on finance of pop- 
ular movements. The condition of the crops 
he will of course watch with keen interest. Re- 
ports on these and other matters will be constantly 
laid before him, not only daily, but almost hourly ; 
for the telegraph has revolutionized the old methods 
of transacting business. The successful banker 
of the present day is in constant communication 
with the great financial centers all over the world. 
For the banker will not confine himself to transac- 
tions in this country, but will form business con- 
nections with foreign countries as well. In fact, 
the successful banker must be a man of large 
brain, capable of taking broad views, be far-see- 
ing, cool-headed, and quick to take advantage of 
every opportunity offered by the constant changes 
and chances of business life. 




Roses red, roses red, 
Some folks say you 're 

fleeting ! 
But we have come 
To take you home, 
And keep the summer's 


Roses red, roses red, 

Say, why are you dying ? 

Ifl could tell 

Poor little Nell, 

Perhaps 't would stop her crying. 

ijg&r *****&*& 




-g-r=l— "O^- 


I. Ros - es red, 

es red, 

Wilis - per how you're grow - ing ! 


it- m 










Then I can tell dear lit - tie Nell, And we shall both be know - ing. 





* -J- 





3= - 


6 3 I 


Look at this picture, dear little folk. It was made for a little girl named 
Mabelle Charlton Phillips, and she sent it to you. Is it not a funny picture? 
The little folks in it are real children, and the little girl who sent it wrote 
this verse about it. She has read her " Mother Goose," you see : 


By Mabelle Charlton Phillips. 

There was a young woman who did n't live in a shoe 
She had six small children, but knew just what to do,— 
She gave them some jelly spread thickly on bread, 
Then kissed them all soundly and put them to bed ! 




" How kind is Nature!" is my opening remark 

Most animals and fowls are born with their 
clothing on — "ready-made" suits. The opos- 
sum and kangaroo, moreover, are supplied with 
pockets. Other animals are provided with prac- 
tical conveniences fitted to their own special work 
in life. The beaver has a trowel ; and the tailor- 
bird with his needle bill can sew leaves together for 
a nest. Think of the spider, which is furnished with 
a rope ladder. See him spin it out as he dangles 
by the rope ; and then watch him wind it in as he 
climbs up by it. Mr. Spider, I suppose, is glad 
he is not like other insects in having to walk. 
But then there 's Mr. Snail, who, though com- 
pelled to crawl, has a house of his own, and carries 
it along with him. Snakes get new coats every 
spring, and horses and fowls shed their old ones, 
too, — it is all so ordered and arranged. But I 
must stop, although I am only half-way into my 
subject. Think it over, my dears. 


I 'M told St. Nicholas is giving you a collec- 
tion of true dog stories. But we '11 have one in 
the meadow here all by ourselves. It came from 
a boy who lives in Marshall, Minnesota : 

Dear Friend Jack.: I thought perhaps you 
would like to tell the children who pick flowers in 
your meadow a story about our " Tony." 

One day last fall my father was duck-shooting, 
and was standing at the foot of a small hill. One 
of the ducks he shot fell just over the hill out of 
sight. Papa took "Tony " over the hill to hunt up 
the duck, and kept calling out to him to " go fetch ! " 
and " hunt him up ! " until the dog, not finding 
the duck, grew tired of the oft-repeated commands. 
Seeming to say to himself, " If my master wants a 

duck so much, I will get him one," he trotted 
around the base of the hill, and taking one from the 
pile of ducks previously shot, he carried it over the 
top of the hill to Papa with a " now-I-hope-you-are- 
satisfied " expression on his face. Papa detected the 
deceit by the fact that the duck was a different kind 
from the one that fell over the hill. Some folks 
think that dogs can't reason, but I think they can. 
We all read St. NICHOLAS here, but I won't tell 
you what we think of it. It would sound too much 
like patent-medicine advertisements, — "before 
taking" and " after taking," etc. 

Ever your friend, 

W. G. L. 


San Jose, California. 

Dear Jack : Here are some answers to Deacon Green's questions 
in the March St. Nicholas : 

How many feet has an ordinary ant? An ordinary field ant has 
six feet. — How many feet has a house-fly ? A house-fly has six feet. 
— How many wings has a dragon-fly ? A dragon-fly has four 
wings. — How many legs has a grasshopper? A grasshopper has 
six legs. — How many teeth has a mole ? I am sorry to say I do not 
know. — How many wings has a bee? A bee has four wings. 

I knew all these answers without any help whatever (especially 
the fifth!). 

Also, I saw Leonora Wood's question about the gende bees. I 
think the reason they did not sting was because the man did not try 
to brush them oft". If he had tried to brush them off they would 
most likely have stung him badly. 

Your faithful reader, Horace F. Lunt (aged eleven). 

The Deacon heartily thanks other young friends, 
especially Charlie C. Russell, J. W. P., and Ger- 
trude Sprague, for answers to his questions. 


DEAR Jack : In the February number of ST. 
Nicholas, in your part of it, I read about a little 
boy having a young tiger for a pet. I also read 
in another book that in India they have young 
tigers for pets. They are not dangerous if they 
are captured before they have tasted meat ; but, 
if they have tasted even a drop of blood, they will 
fly at you. I read once that a man had one for a 
pet. He was sitting writing and his tiger was lying 
beside him, licking his hand. It so happened that 
in doing this the tiger's rough tongue accidentally 
caused a drop of blood to start. The tiger tasted 
it and then flew at the man. The man drew his 
pistol and shot the tiger, just in time. I am 
Your interested reader, 

Robert K. Root. 


A friend of yours and mine, my dears, sends 
you this account of an indoor snow-storm, which 
she found in a newspaper: 

Last winter, on a very cold night, a ball was held 
in a town in Sweden, and in the course of the even- 
ing the room became so hot that some of the ladies 
fainted. As the windows were so hard-frozen that 
they could not be opened, a pane of glass was 
broken. The effect was curious ; the inrush of 
cold condensed the watery vapor (which the heat 
had hitherto dissolved) in the air of the room, and 

J A C K - I X - T H E - P U L P I T . 


caused it to fall in the form of snow. Though this 
rather astounded the dancers, it was what might 
have been expected under the circumstances. Sim- 
ilar indoor snow-storms are of frequent occurrence 
in Russia. 


Having seen a great many kinds of barometers 
spoken of in ST. NICHOLAS, I thought I would 
tell your readers of one that everybody notices in 
Florida. Whenever we hear the alligators making 
a loud bellowing noise, we always expect rain or 
bad weather, and it nearly always comes. 

Your constant reader, J. R. 


Washington, D. C. 
Dear Jack : I think I can add a few peculiar 
names to those you already have. The " head " 
and ''foot " of a class; the "nose " of a pitcher; 
the " neck " of a vase ; 

flame ; 
luxury ; a 

a tongue 

the "lap" of 

" vein " of stone, gold, 

or silver; the "brow" 

of a hill ; and the 

" mouth " of a cave. 

I made these up all by 
myself, and would like 
to see them in print, as 
they might interest some 
of the readers of your 
little lectures. Now, dear 
Jack, is it not strange 
that many of these 
terms when reversed be- 
come slang, as, for in- 
stance, if a boy should 
call a person's head a 
"cocoanut." his hands 
" paws," or his face a 
"mug!" I am just thir- 
teen years old. 

Your reader, 
Gwendolen Overton. 



Dear Jack in the Pulpit : I saw in the March number of St. 
Nicholas, that Miss Rosalie Caswell wants the readers of St. 
Nicholas to tell how many toes a dog has, without looking to see. I 
think my little dog has twenty, but I am not sure, as I have not 
looked to see. My dog's name is Pinkestrean Black, but I call her 
Pinkie. My father has a big dog called Samuel Sloan, named for the 
president of the D. I.. S: W, Railroad. My dog Pinkie is the same 
age as I am — eleven years. I think I will write a letter to you about 
Sam. Sam is what I call a dog-shun or war-dog. 

With much love, I am your reader, 

G. Ambrose E. Vanderpoel. 

G. Ambrose E. Vanderpoel is probably quite 
right, and all of you who have dogs may look to 
see for yourselves. But a very observant corre- 
spondent who signs himself U. U. says there may 
be two answers to Miss Caswell's question. All 
dogs, he says, have five toes on each fore foot, but 
there are more having four toes on each hind foot 
than there are having five. Those that have only 
eighteen toes in all do not have the small toe on 

n the case of the 
dog having these 

the inside of each hind foot. 

toes, he has 

twenty in all. 
Neither case is a 
deformity, for 
the number de- 
pends upon the 
breed of the dog. 

A YOUNG friend who lives near Bristol in Som- 
ersetshire, England, recently saw some very wide- 
awake squirrels of which he sends me this account : 

Dear Jack : I am writing to tell you about 
some squirrels. 

The squirrels were out the whole of last winter, 
contrary to what one usually hears of their sleeping 
through the cold weather. Snow was on the 
ground, but still they came out and ran along in 
it while it was quite deep. 

I thought this might perhaps interest some of 
your readers who belong to the Agassiz Association. 
Your interested reader, Theo. L. Dyke. 

SOMETIMES my birds tell me very queer stories. 
I wonder if the little girl is here who quite hurt 
the feelings of one of my robins last July. Ac- 
cording to his account, she ate all she wanted, and 
when he sang a few coaxing notes to her, she said 
to him: " I 'd give you one, birdie, but cherries 
are so unwholesome ! Besides, I had to climb all 
the way up here, and you just flew to the limb 
without the least trouble, — so you can get your 
own cherries ! " 


Here is a wonderful snake-story. It is sent to 
you by a nine-year old friend of mine named Mar- 
land Rollins: 

Once when I was six years old, I was with a little 
girl out in Kansas. I saw a snake and then I went 
to grandpapa and told him that there was a snake 
there under the piazza. Then he brought his hoe, 
chopped off the head, but the head ran around. 
It is very wonderful how these snakes are. 






Rochester, N. Y. 

Dear St. Nicholas : The records of the Monmouth rebellion, 
especially when they relate to personal incidents, are so hazy and un- 
certain that it is very easy to see how two versions of a single story, 
both apparently authentic, may be extant; and, therefore, it would 
be captious and unfair for me to criticize the admirably told story of 
" Grizel Cochrane's Ride," in the February St. Nicholas. But, 
as I wrote the story of " Bonny Grizzy Cochrane " some ten years 
ago, and as my version differs in some of its features from the one in 
St. Nicholas, I desire to call attention to the fact, rather to com- 
pare notes than otherwise, regarding this remarkable romance of the 
moor of Tweedmouth. 

According to the story as I learned it, the gallant heroine twice 
successfully robbed the king's mail, thus securing the original death- 
warrant and the second, or duplicate, which had been sent after it 
became known that the first was lost. On the first of these oc- 
casions, the girl started from her father's castle, near Berwick, and 
effected her object while the post-rider slept at a wayside inn. In 
the second robbery, she went from Edinburgh, as your contributor 
has it, but she did not dispose of the remainder of the mail as de- 
scribed, but secreted it ; for, otherwise, it would have been buta child's 
work to trace the robbery, which would have been fatal to Sir John's 
safety. The negotiations for the pardon were conducted by the 
Earl of Dundonald — a kinsman of Sir John Cochrane — through 
the kind's confessor. Grizel Cochrane was the great grandmother 
of Mr. Coutts, the once celebrated London banker. 

I spent a part of the summer of 1850 in Scotland, and was for some 
days in the immediate neighborhood of the spot where Sir John 
Cochrane's castle stood, and even at that late period, the story of 
" Bonny Grizzy " was often mentioned in the neighborhood. Later 
on, while in Edinburgh, I found in the library of a friend a little i2mo 
book, containing six short stories, with the title-page: "Border 
Tales. Founded on historical facts. By John Throcton. Edin- 
burgh, 1764." 

One of these was the story of " Grizel Cochrane's heroic effort 
to save her father's life," and, after reading it, I entered in my 
note-book the main features of the story. In the same year, while 
prowling round an old book-shop, I stumbled on some dilapidated 
leaves of what had once been a collection of ballads, on one leaf of 
which was a date 169- (the last figure so defaced I could not make 
it out, but thought it a 3 or an 8|. There were two complete bal- 
lads and parts of two others. One of these defaced copies had nine 
stanzas and part of the tenth verse of a ballad entitled "Cochrane's 
Bonny Grizzy." I bought the fragment for a sixpence, I think, 
and carried it to London, where I was then living. About i860 or 
'62 I came across a volume of reprinted " Border Ballads," which 
was published by Longman, Brown, Green, and Longman in 1837, 
and among these was the ballad of "Cochrane's Bonny Grizzy " 

Both Throcton's tale and each of these ballads concur in making 
Grizzy Cochrane commit the double robbery. 

Yours very truly H. Pomeroy Brewster. 

cession ; but of course their fire was without effect ; and when the 
postman, finding his weapons useless, dismounted and tried to 
clutch Grizel or her horse, she not only escaped his grasp by dex- 
terous use of the spurs, but contrived also to seize the bridle of the 
postman's horse. This gained, she put both steeds to the gallop, 
leaving the helpless postman to gaze after the vanishing mail-bags 
and then trudge back on foot to the nearest town. 

In other respects also, the account which we have mentioned dif- 
fers from the version quoted by Mr. Brewster, as well as from the 
one printed in our February number. There seems to be a basis in 
historic annals for accepting as a fact the main incident of the story 
— Grizel's robbery of the postman to obtain her father's death-war- 
rant. But it probably would be useless to attempt at this day to 
verify any of the details of the adventure, or to reconcile the various 
forms of the story. It has, no doubt, suffered the fate of other border 
tales and traditions by being changed and amplified in its descent 
from one generation to another. 

It will interest our readers to know that there is now living in New 
York a gentleman who is a direct descendant of Grizel Cochrane, 
the heroine of the story under discus- 
sion. He has authorized us to state 
that Grizel's plucky feat is a prized tra- 
dition of his family, who implicitly be- 
lieve in it as a fact ; and he has kindly 
shown us an old "rose-diamond" ring 
which, he says, was presented to Grizel 
by her father, Sir John Cochrane, in 
commemoration of her daring adventure 
in his behalf. This ring was owned by 

the late Professor Rankine of Glasgow University, who describes it 
in his will — a copy of which is before us — as " the diamond ring 
formerly belonging to Grizel Cochrane, or Rankine, my great- 

By the courtesy of the gentleman in whose family this interesting 
keepsake is preserved, we are permitted to show to St. Nicholas 
readers an engraving of the ring and also a miniature copy of a corner 
of a napkin that was woven in Grizel Cochrane's house. It is one of 
a set of six that have descended as a family heirloom, and in the cor- 
ners may be seen the name of Grisal Ranken, a daughter or a niece 

Here is another letter concerning the story. 
little girl living in Quincy, Massachusetts: 

It comes from a 

Dear St. Nicholas : In the February number there is a piece 
called " Grizel Cochrane's Ride." In an old magazine called " Wil- 
son's Tales of the Borders," November 8, 1834, the same story was 
published ; but, though the facts are the same, the story seems to 
me far more probable. I thought you might like to have a little 
girl tell you where another version of the same story was found by 

Truly yours, Mary \V. D {twelve years old). 

We were careful to state beneath the title of " Grizel Cochrane's 
Ride " that the story, as printed in St. Nicholas, was "Jbundedupon 
an incident of the Monmouth Rebellion." The records of the time 
are indeed "hazy and uncertain," — to use Mr. Brewster's words; 
and in addition to the authorities which he cites, we have been re- 
ferred to still another version of the story, published in Chambers' 
Miscellany, years ago. In that account, it is stated that Grizel 
drew out the loads from the postman's pistols while he lay asleep 
in the inn, and successfully robbed him of the mail-bags upon the 
highway, after he had resumed his journey. When she demanded 
the bags, he pointed both pistols at her and drew the triggers in suc- 

of the heroine of our story. Grizel Cochrane herself may have been 
still living at the time when the date (1735) was woven into the nap- 
kin, — and it is even possible that the name and date were wrought 
into the fabric by the same hand that drew the pistol upon the 
startled postman many years before. 

i88 7 .] 



By an oversight, which we regret, the name of the author of the 
French verse, "La Main," printed on page 364 of St. Nicholas 
for .March, was omitted when the page was sent to press. We now 
take pleasure in stating that the clever lines were written by Jean 
Aicard, a well-known French author, whose writings are very popu- 
lar in his native country. 

We give below three translations of the verse, kindly sent us by 
readers of.ST. Nicholas. 


The thumb, the first of the five fingers of the hand, 
Said to the second, " Ah, I am so hungry ! " 
The index, or second, finger said, " We have no bread." 
The middle finger said, " What is to be done? " 
" As one can," said the ring-finger. 
" Oh ! oh ! oh ! " said the smallest ; 

" Who works lives! 
Who works lives ! " 

Fanny D. B . 


The thumb, which of all the five fingers comes first, 
Said to the second, " Ah, hungry am I ! " 
** Alack ! and alas ! we have no nice, good bread," 
The finger which came second then did reply. 
The middle one spoke, " Oh, what shall we do ? " 
* ( Do ? We 'II do what we can," said the ring-finger then. 
And the little one said, " Pshaw ! pshaw ! oh, pooh, pooh ! " 
(He was the smallest of all the small men.) 

" To live, one must work," 
He muttered again. 

Miriam O (aged thirteen). 

discharged from other hospitals have been eventually cured here; 
only the other day a lad of sixteen came to see me, who at four years 
old was declared to be incurably afflicted with spine disease ; he is 
now able to walk and to earn his living. 

But these houses in Cheyne Walk are very old ; the constant need 
of repair is costly, and since last winter it has been necessary to 
close one ward, because the back rooms arc unfit for occupation. 

A new hospital is wanted and a piece of ground has been bought 
on which to build it. The new site faces the river, so that the little 
patients will still be able to watch the boats and steamers on the 
"silent highway." 

I have watched the progress of Cheyne Home for ten years, and 
I always find the children bright and happy. It is sometimes diffi- 
cult when one goes into a ward to realize, in the din of merry laugh- 
ter, that so many of these dear little ones are afflicted with incurable 
disease, and will probably never rise from their cots ; yet it has been 
proved here that hip disease treated in an early stage may be cured ; 
one child aged seven has made a complete recovery. 

Several of the little patients are very interesting. The boy in the 
cot founded in memory of Charles Kingsley woidd have delighted 
the great man whose picture hangs over his head. 

Cheyne Hospital, besides nursing its inmates, secures country 
and sea air for its convalescent patients, and, when possible, it ena- 
bles them to be taught a trade. Incurable patients are kept and 
most tenderly cared for, as long as human care is needed. 

It has never been in debt, but the funds which maintain the little 
hospital can not be trenched on for this much-needed new building, and 
I make this appeal in the hope of liberal help, so that a new hospital 
may be built large enough to admit some of the numerous candi- 
dates whom the present hospital is compelled to refuse. There is 
only one other such hospital in London. 

Cheyne Hospital for Sick and Incurable Children, 46 Cheyne 
Walk, Chelsea, is open every day to visitors, between half-past two 
and half-past four. Donations or subscriptions for the new Hospital 
Building Fund should be addressed to the Secretary, 46 Cheyne 
Walk, Chelsea. I am, dear St. Nicholas, faithfully yours, 

Katharine S. MacQuoid. 


Hungry little Frenchmen, 
Five, all in a bunch — 

Fatty to his henchmen 
Cried aloud for lunch : 

"Ah qi£ j'*a£ /aim ! ' 

Brother Punchinello, 
Always debonair — 

Merry little fellow, 
Sings this jolly air: 
"Mangez V air/" 

We take pleasure in commending to the attention of our readers 
the accompanying picture, which is a notable illustration of what 
can be accomplished by a clever boy. 

Much astonished second 

Could n't find the bread — 
First his neighbor beckon'd, 
Then he sadly said : 

" 'Dl'y a pas a" pain .' 

Puzzled by the riddle — 
Here 's a howdy do ! 

Chappy in the middle 
Don't know what to do : 
" Comment f aire ? " 

While young Peewee 
Upon his knee, 

As all can see, 
Wrote rapidly : 

Ah qu' j'ai/aini .' 

'N'y a Pas a" pain ! 
Comment /aire ? 
Mangez Voir I 

E. W. K. 

Readers of Mr. Stockton's article in this number entitled " King 
London," and indeed all readers of St. Nicholas, will be interested 
in this letter from Mrs. Katharine S. MacQuoid concerning a London 
project for the benefit of sick and incurable children. Mrs. Mac- 
Quoid's interesting account of Cheyne Hospital has a practical 
import for our English readers — many of whom may be glad to do 
what they can in aid of so noble a charity : 

The Cheyne Hospital for Sick and Incurable Children. 

Dear St. Nicholas: There are in London and elsewhere in 

England, hundreds of crippled and suffering children, little diseased 
creatures whose homes are so small and poor that they can not be 
specially cared for. It has sometimes happened that a child suffer- 
ing from hip disease has had to share a bed with three healthy 
brothers and sisters. 

Some of these sad cases get admitted to one of the regular chil- 
dren's hospitals, and after the allotted time expires, they are dis- 
charged as " incurables," and they go home to suffer perhaps yet 
more acutely from the contrast which home offers to the kind care 
and skillful treatment received from nurses and doctors. 

About ten years ago, a tentative effort to meet this evident want 
was made in a small house beside the Thames, No. 46 Cheyne Walk, 
Chelsea, and very soon so much sympathy was aroused by its suc- 
cess, that the originators of the scheme were able to add an adjoining 
house to the little hospital, and thirty-four cots were provided for 
patients, most of whom were suffering from hip and spinal disease. 
Several of these cots have since been permanently endowed. 

The hospital is excellently managed ; it has an admirable lady 
superintendent, devoted nurses, and skillful doctors; several cases 

The drawing was made by Harry C. Brearley of Detroit, at the 
age of fourteen, and is a portrait of his baby-sister " Marguerite." 
Other specimens of the young artist's work are equally creditable to 
his talent and skill. 

6 3 6 




Contributors are respectfully informed that, between the ist of June and the 15th of September, manuscripts can not conveniently be 

examined at the office of St. Nicholas. Consequently, those who desire to favor the magazine with contributions 

will please postpone sending their MSS. until after the last-named date. 


My Dear St. Nicholas : As I was staying at Nice during the 
recent earthquakes, I thought you might like to have a description 
of them from one of your most devoted readers. 

At three minutes of six, the 23d of February, I was awakened by 
a most terrific shaking and banging, as though all the mountains 
behind our hotel were tumbling on the roof, while the house, a huge 
nne, rolled till I thought every moment it would fall; frightened 
shrieks were heard from all sides, in which I heartily joined. This 
lasted one minute and a half, for at the first rumblings two of my 
friends, suspecting what was coming, timed it exactly. Of course, 
every one jumped up immediately, and the most curious costumes I 
have ever seen appeared in the corridors that fearful night. Most 
consisted of a blanket or quilt thrown over their night-gowns ; some, 
less lucky and more frightened, seized up an old shawl; the whole 
population was dreadfully scared. 

Twenty minutes later there was another shock nearly as severe 
as the first, though not so long ; at half-past eight, one lighter still, 
but enough to cause the wildest terror ; since then they have been 
perceptibly lighter, though quite enough to drive a great many visit- 
ors, ourselves included, away from the coast. Some dreadful dam- 
age was done, though only four people were actually killed by it. 
One poor governess had her floor give way under her, while the 
walls and roofs fell on top of her; and an old lady died of fright in 
her bed. One family of ten, living in a rickety house on the fifth 
flat, getting very much alarmed, jumped from the windows, and all 
landed unhurt on a tree below (a curious story) where they com- 
fortably roosted till morning, while their house was shaken to ruins. 
They would inevitably have been killed, had they remained in it. 
No one can doubt the truth of this statement, for I read it in a 
newspaper ! 

But I am afraid I am taking too much room in your precious 
magazine ; so wishing St. Nicholas a very long life, 

I remain, your enthusiastic reader, Beatrice L. B. 

Dear St. Nicholas : It was proposed to me to-day to write you, 
as it may interest some of your readers to hear of the earthquakes in 
the south of France from one who felt them. We were at Cannes, 
and since we have come here, people tell me we felt nothing ; but I 
was tltere, and can tell a different story. It was almost six a. H. 
when we were awakened by the trembling of the hotel. My bed 
moved so much that I fancied for the moment I was at sea, and was 
not frightened. The noise, however, was the most alarming part of 
our shock. Had several railway trains passed under our windows, I 
doubt if it would have been louder ; all the electric bells rang from the 
trembling of the wires. Five minutes after the earthquake every 
one was in the garden, where the scene was almost funny. Several 
of the rooms on the upper floors were damaged, but nothing seri- 
ously. Every one seemed to have saved something. One lady with 
her umbrella had left her jewels. We remained out-of-doors until 
after eight o'clock, when we came in to breakfast. There was more 
trembling later, but we were but little frightened. It was at night 
that the true feeling of helplessness came upon one. The following 
nights were far from pleasant. People said there would be shocks 
at all hours, and, while one did not believe them, it was hard not to 
be nervous. The occupants of the rooms on my left talked long and 
late upon the possibility of being '"jammed," and, as the walls were 
thin, I heard every word, and decided to dress at once. Both Wednes- 
day and Thursday nights there were slight shocks, but the latter 
evening and night were so hot we were unable to suppress fears. I 
made myself as comfortable as possible on my bed, and afterward 
found my parents had done the same. It was not until Thursday 
we heard of the damage done to Nice, Mentone, and the small 
Italian towns. We drove once through a little village near Cannes, 
where the church has since fallen in on a number of peasants. We 
were at Cannes some months, and all enjoyed the many beautiful 
drives about there, and the days spent on the water. We visited 
the fort where the " Man in the Iron Mask " was imprisoned seven- 
teen years, and the ruins of the old monastery on the Island St. Hon- 
orat. We were a small party that day, and. having plenty of time, 
my father made several sketches, while my friend and myself took 
several photographs of the islands. I have written much more than 
I at first intended. Hoping it is not too long, I remain. 

Very sincerely yours, E . 

P. S. — I read the very interesting letter from Charleston, and 
thought one from Cannes might interest also. 

Leicester, England. 

Dear St. Nicholas: My object in writing to you is to tell 

you how delighted my little brother Willie, aged five, was with the 

tale in the last number, entitled " A Queer Horse-Car." I have 

read it to him five times already, and now he wants to hear it again. 

I am, your constant reader, Alice H . 

Norfolk, Virginia. 
Dear St. Nicholas : We three friends have just read General 
Adam Badeau's interesting account of the battle between the Merri- 
mac and the Monitor, and as we live near the scene of action, all the 
points on the map are very familiar to us. Every summer we make 
frequent visits to Old Point, and see the fort where the Union battery 
was during the war. Many relics of the battle, and the remains of the 
dry-dock where the Merrimac was built, are still to be seen at the 
Gosport Navy Yard. The Franklin, one of the oldest ships in the 
navy, has had her resting-place here for many years, as she is 
unserviceable for sea and is used as a receiving-ship. Living here, 
right on the water, we go on board of all the men-of-war which come 
to this port, and take special joy in airing our knowledge of French 
and German before the officers of the ships of those nations. We 
have taken your magazine for many years, and never tire of reading 
your charming stories, and especially those of E. S. Brooks. 

Yours, J. P. and N. 

New Hartford, Ia. 
Dear St. Nicholas: I have been sick, and one day my sister 
and I made rhymes. I send you one of mine, with original illustra- 
tions. I am twelve years old and am ill much of the time. I always 
am so glad when St. Nicholas comes. Yours, 

Grace Cameron. 


-i a.>n. only d, paoy i ft tie 
fo Dywog 
#vt I tti'ink ihat l)f wii/e 

yjL WJiat prospects th&yp are fot 
1 3 polly Wo$l\ 

Chicago, III. 
Dear St. Nicholas : I am a little kitten, eight months old, and my 
name is Bessie. In your last number I saw a letter from a doll 
named Lucy. From her letter, I think she must be very disagree- 
able. My little mistress Adele has dolls, but they are very nice. 
When she has company, she makes me sit up in a chair, and hold 
one of them. Then her friends laugh, and make fun of me. While 

i88 7 .: 



Adele is at school I tear up her paper dolls, if she leaves them where 
I can get them. When she comes home, she is provoked at first, 
but afterward she laughs, and 1 do it again if I get the chance. I 
had my picture taken, and what a time I had! Adele took me 
three times hefore I could get a good one taken. I have a dear little 
collar and bell. When I want to go out of a room, and the door is 
shut, I shake my head and my little bell rings till somebody lets me 
out. I can do all kinds of tricks, but I can't talk. When I go out 
and sit at the door, the neighbors' rude dogs come and bark at me. 
Then 1 cry until Adele comes and takes me in the house. I must 
say good-night, as Mamma does not know I am writing. 

Adele's pet, Bessie. 


My Dear St. Nicholas : I have written to you several times, 
but my letters have always been laid aside and not mailed. I guess 
Mamma thought they were not worth mailing, and I think perhaps 
she was right. 

My last birthday, which was my tenth, my mamma made a little 
surprise party for me. My papa gave you to me for a Christmas 
present about two years ago, and 1 liked you so much that I have 
kept on taking you. Although I have taken a number of different 
papers and magazines, I like you the best of all. I especially liked 
"Little Lord Fauntleroy" and "Prince Fairyfoot," and am now 
much interested in "Juan andjuanita" and " Jenny's Boarding- 
house. " 

Well, I guess you will think I am never going to stop ; so I will 
say good-bye, and give the others a chance. I remain, 

Your affectionate reader, Alice M. E . 

tell you ; it means — for the pony to stop suddenly when he is run- 
ning (or galloping) and throw his head down, so that it nearly touches 
the ground. 

I have two other pets, Quailie, a dog, and Brutus, the cat. I 
think you must think I am never going to get through writing about 
my pets, so I will change the theme. 

I like "Juan and Juanita" ever so much. There are wild bees 
here that make their homes (or hives) in trees, and my cousin some- 
times gets them and puts them in real hives. But he will not do so 
any more for a long time, for he is at college. Perhaps you think I am 
a boy. I am not ; I am a girl, and I must stop, or you, St. Nicho- 
las, will say, " Woe is me ! but this letter cannot enter the Letter- 
box, because italone would fill it up." So good-bye, St. Nicholas ; 
you are the best magazine on this continent. 

I am ever your friend, E. G. M . 

Hudson, N. Y. 

Dear St. Nicholas : I have never written to you before, and 
have never seen but one letter from this city in your Letter-box, so 
I thought I would write. We have taken you ever since your first 
number, and we all like you very much. 

I go to the high school, and expect to graduate in June. There 
will be ten girls in our class. Last year there was one boy in the 
class, but he deserted us last June. We are all worrying over our 
essays, and all looking for subjects. Probably some of your readers 
have been through it all, and know how to sympathize with us. 

I liked the " Story of the Merrimac and Monitor," and "Jenny's 
Boarding house," very much. 

Your friend and constant reader, S . 

Here are some rhymes written by a little boy while a student at 
an English school : 

The End of the Holidays. 

by herbert mt'sgrave (ten years old). 

Now the holidays are done, 
Oh, the joy ! and oh, the fun ! 
No more sleighing on the slope, 
No more splicing of a rope, 
No more plowing of a path 
In the snow to make you laugh, 
No more shooting at the cock, 
No more putting it in dock, 
No more making of the craft 
Which people say looks like a raft ; 
No more getting up at nine. 
No more kicking up a shine, 
No more getting lines to do, 
No more burning up one's shoe, 
No more brushing of the snow 
From the ice on which to go. 
So now we end the holiday 
To do all work, and never play. 

Boston, Mass. 
Dear St. Nicholas : I am a little girl thirteen years old, and 1 
have just returned from Germany, where I have been for the last 
three years. I went to Vienna, Heidelberg, and several other large 
cities, besides a good many country places. We spent two winters in 
Dresden, but I do not like it nearly as well as Vienna. I knew some 
German when I went there, but Mamma wanted me to learn to speak 
it well, so I was not allowed to talk any English, and the only Eng- 
lish I was allowed to read was the St. Nicholas, which my uncle 
sent over to me every month. So you see I have become very much 
attached to dear old St. Nick. Coming back, we staid in France 
about two months, spending most of the time in Paris. Then we 
went to London, and I never before saw such a smoky, dirty city, 
and it did nothing but rain all the time we were there. Now, good- 
bye, dear St. Nicholas. 

From your interested reader, Edith L . 

Hansell, Iowa. 

Dear St. Nicholas: After dinner (it is ten minutes of twelve 
now) I will have my pony saddled and bridled and go to town to mail 
this letter. I am twelve years old. 

My pony is four, but he does not look one year old because he is 
so small. He is a great pet, and his name is Kleide. He will eat 
sugar — so much. He is an Indian pony, and he " bucks." I like 
to have him " buck." Do you know what " buck " means ? I will 

No. Plymouth, Mass. 

Dear St. Nicholas: I have taken St. Nicholas ever since 
1883, and like it more and more each year. " Little Lord Fauntle- 
roy " and "Prince Fairyfoot" I think were splendid, and so is 
" Juan and Juanita." 

I will be ten years old in May. My April St. Nicholas came 
Monday, and I was delighted to get it. I think that the " Brownies " 
are the funniest little things that I ever saw. I like "Historic 
Girls" very much. I live in Plymouth, the old town where the 
Pilgrims landed. 

I was very much interested in the names for different things. I 
send you two or three to add to the list, — the roots of a tooth, the 
veins of a leaf, and the teeth of a rake. Good-bye, St. Nicholas. 

May S . 

Thame, England. 
Dear St. Nicholas: I have never written to you before. There 
are four of us. Edith comes first ; she is thirteen ; Edgar, who is 
eleven, and then myself; I am ten ; and then George, who is eight. 
Edith is at school in Surrey, and I am going down to her next term, 
and Edgar is going to St. Paul's, in London, and George is at 
Brighton. We have three dogs: a thoroughbred collie named Wal- 
lace, which belongs to Edith, and a Skye terrier that belongs to 
Mother, — its name is Rags, — and a Yorkshire terrier named Tip that 
belongs to me. Mother has a pony named Taffy that we ride, and 
some pigs. Edith has got a doe rabbit, and I have some fowls — five 
— and a rooster ; and Edgar has a bullfinch ; so we don't come badly 
off for pets. Father has taken you for about ten years, and we all 
like you very much. I have a good many dolls, but I don't care for 
them one bit. With much love, I remain, 

Your admiring reader. May P . 

Our thanks for the receipt of pleasant letters are due to the young 
friends whose names here follow: Margaret F. Morse, Mabel B., 
Jessie DeG., Mary R., George Priest, Edith E. Abbott, G. M. A., 
C. L., Sarah Plant, Samuel and G. A. E. V., T. Wallace, B. Chand- 
ler, Two Little Maids, " Heathen," Ray Smith, B. M. D., Walter 
E. Jones, Meg R., Annie B. K., Lillian Bay, K M. H., Alice 
Keener, Bessie M. C, Fred. L. M., M. H. Bisbee, C. M. G., Grace 
Edith T., Frankie Goss, Grade G., Nettie R., Mary M., A. B. Dod, 
Grace F. Eldredge, Lucille W. Garrison, Tom D. Perry, Frieda S., 
Ethel Norton, M. A., Jessie M. Ketcham, Eva K., Turner B. Bunn, 
Adolphus M. S., Florence J. H., Mary A. Wcller, John G. Legge, 
Willie Hollenbeck, Fred Driver, May Robinson, Mollie Gibson, 
Fiank R. C. B., Marion, L. L. K., Bertie B., W. W. Croom, Jessie 
and Ruth W., Emily T. Howell, Anna McC, Robert J. H., A. R. 
Q., Hattie Howe, Addie Chambers, Chippie Howell, M. K. Lethem, 
Nina F. J., Percy H. Parke, B. C, "Snowdrop," Bertha B., 
Irene S., L. L. Lloyd, Florence E. Nelson, Maud, Charles C. F., 
Helen B., M. R., Kate and Grace, Ida Strauss, Norman, and K. 

6 3 8 



(See St. Nicholas for April, page 478.) 

From 45 TO 50. — (Concluded.) O. Smith, E. E. Carman. M. S. Tracy, B. F. and J. W. H. Porter, L. Sparks, A. McLenegan, E. 
Stanton, M. and R. Cole, C. Blossom, T. B. Allen, J. Rudden, E. K. Moss, E. F. Pratt, F. P. Humphrey, E M. Bushell, L. C. Butler 
B. E. ¥., Katie S. M., " Buffie," H. B. F., C. M Upton, L. C. de Coppet. "Hilda." F. W. Islip, G. Gray, E. C. Adams, J. V. Domi- 
phan, Jr., Taygete and Cleone, F. H. Young, V. Young, M. Hussey, W. D. Booth, Dunmore, N. Protzman, Ethel, Guy, and Fred, 
S. M. Kennedy, Ida and Lucy, L. L. Roby, A. Cowperthwait, N. and L. Moore, L. McClellan, A. S. Wood, " Chromateela," M. Baldwin, 
J. E. W., M. Eyre, B. Schoonmaker, " Junius." Ines R. , " Rustic," C. Gilman, G. I, Virgin, A. McElroy, G. Hilliard, Berrys, B. Johnson, 

A. Valentine, " Largs," Ethel S., L. M. Aitkinson, R. 11 Broaders, Job and Star, A, G, Bishop, B. Roberts, " Wyo and Colo," " Delta," 

B. Alt, C. I. Coppins, May B. G\, Earl and Roy, L. Houghton, G. M. \V\, E. Hannington, " We, Us, and Co.," C. L. B., J. Bingham, 
" Combination," E. and E. Hope, C. Mezger, J. B. and R. D. Carter, S. Park, Jr., M. Somerville, E. G. Eccles, E. Caser, L. M. Moore, 
M. Hannis, Katie D., M. Hopper, E. and W. B . Lettie R., Ida, A. L. Mudge, H. K. Gaskill, A. G. Farwcll, Tessa, Clara H. S., W. H., 
F. F. Spie., S. H. P., R. Player, M. E. Robbins, E. R. Pearce, I. M. H., " Delight," M. Glennie, D. E. and A. Kingston, " Venus," 
M. Spence, D. True, M. B. Butler, A. J. Klapp, M. A. J., M. Isaacs, A. C, F. L. Dudgeon, W. M. Tuller, R. F. Alexander, Nini, 

D. Hadger, A. M. Salisbury, E. M. Belleville. M, S. Rodgers, Mrs. L. D. C, L. J. S. Brown, F. Holcomb, R. E. Stancliff, H. C. Shrews- 
bury, V. C, S. Van Helden, D. Coe, K. Wilson, J. H. Wilkes, C. F. Bunnell, W. P. H., Jr., L. S. Flynt, A. H. Young, H. S. Mason, 
F. B. Stocking, Muriel and Guy, A. M. Osborn, D. Furman, J. B., H. M. Rohn, No Name, Hugh and Cis, M. P. F., M. B. Brown, 

E. B. Slaughter, Etta R., D. Low, H. Heinzen, H. and M. L. Ward, C. B. Walker, Budge, Jim, and Toby, A. Roberts, C. Thacher, 
"The Brownies," D. S. Wylie, F. L. Bradley, A. L. Lyon, E. B. Elliot, D. Gordon A. S., "Gyp," Estelle, N. Cartridge, R. S. Tucker, 
D. Perry, E. Coles, L. A. Houston, L. H. Warner, M. Kaler, A. W. Chase, B. C. Beck, S. E. P., "A Reader," M. Bridges, "Teena," 
H. Crabtree, " Solon," C. M. A., C. Barr, E. A. Jenkins, M. F. T., L. E. and M. G. Haviland, E. H. Gibbons, E. W. C, C. M. and 
J. S. Chamberlain. Jennie, Frank B., J. W. Grame, W. A. Donald, 1. E. Goodrich, C. L. Gilbert, M. E. Woolley, R. Driggs, H. and F. W., 
K. H. C. A. C. P., Georgie R., W. and C. Child, V. M. Elting, B. Gott, A. L. Granbery, A. Du Bois Sower, M. L. Fisher, P. Barrett, 

F. Rosengarten, A. McGibney, E. B., I. H. S. , A L. Fearn, M. W. Carr, Mrs. J. Kempster, E. Thompson, M. A. M., P. Peacham, 
W. S. Trumbull, N. Danford, M. and A. Donnelly, L. W. C, A. Major, W. and B. Richardson, B. Green, "Imp," G. M. Sears, 
K. Miracle, H. I. R., B. A. Cottlow, T. W. Park, P." E. Boishmere, B. E. Ells, L. B. Shaw, A. G. Sickels, W. Kelly, L. Haskell, E. G. 
Banta, Grace W.. Rea Hanna, Amice, " Learned Pig," L. M. Braunlich, G. and E. Hickok, No Name, Galesburg, H. S., F. S. Haight, 
I. H. Martin, "Woodpeckers," L. Carr, M. Clark. M. H. Follett, K. Bucknam, G. E. Ward. B. J. Sherman, M. H. Ritchie, K. M. 
Hunter, " Navy Yard," H. H. Dickerson, M. E. Vincent, C. B. Gabriel. E. Holhnshead, G. M. Gore, W. CM., E. Woodruff, R. Randall, 
W. F. Michael and Harry, N. B. Fowler, A. W. Naylor, J. and G. Cooke, R. Mason, F. W. Holland, G. M. Tozier, M. G. A., A. H. 
Kaupkc, " Clelia," B. Auerbach. F. and S. Kraus, S. K., The Badeaus, H. Hill, F. Pritchard, Arthur and Mildred, F. E. Long, F. Von 
Dorsten, L. J. English, F. H. Ward. Madge, Irene, and Cecil, A. Cameron, J., "Medico," " Lilian," J. M. Marples, L. P. Bates, 
H. and L. Flanigen, F. S. Williams, M. A., K. L. Robertson, A. E. Parsons, H. C. Olcott, C. Shumway, E. L. Mattice, A. E. White, 

D. .Matthews, A. Howell. 

43. A. R. Douglass, E. A. and I. R. S., Theo. and Elsie, M. P., Three Little Maids, Gertrude S., A. and M. Fries, W. J. L., M. 

E. Piatt, J. Allen, Margie, J. P. Andersen, Jim and Topsy, A. B. C. D. J— . h., M. W. Langdon and M. D. Whittier, Ida and Dessie, 
M. and B. Dixon, E. M., J. and L. Murdoch, J. G. S., E. A. S., and E. S., N. Clark, D. Haskell, A. Manchester, H. H. Cornell, N. D. 
Sherman, W. H. Powell. C. M. Bradley, B. Brush, "Three Friends," H. H. Meeder, Friedrich, E. St. C. Whitney, L. Blockley, A. Mc- 
Reynolds, E. T. Terry, C. Benton, O. O. Partridge, G. Sealey, A. H. Scott, C. Rogers, A. J. Wilcox, W. L. McConway, A. R. Anthony, 

E. Abbott. T. Richards, E. May, P. S. Hall, M. M. Mathews, E. L Philips, M. Morse, E. H. Hudson, C. A. Kelley, L. Bolton, " Ginger," 

C. Loeb, M. and F. Putnam, N. and R. Holbrook, H. G., M. G., H. H., and S. H., A. L. Shepard, " Several Readers," M. H. W. Sil- 
vester, Ned R., " Vineta," M. Barrie, " King Arthur," M. C. Lambom, H. W. Clark, F. D. Van Dien, E. K. Talboys, M. H. \V., K. W. 
Greene, H. H , C. H. Stutsman, M. C. M., A. L. Loving, J. H. Redfield, Jr., "Queen Mab," Daisy H., " Pawn," G. Stern, Marcus and 
Ted. B. and M. Gillespie and E. Hubner, A. Belin, B. Casey, W. V. Pettit, Jr., H. Coleman, F. C. Weber, H. Hawthorne, L. Dale, M. 
R. S. and S. W. S., E. R. Larned, D. Miller, G. W. Cutler, Pvott Family, A. M. Savre, W. M. Gardner, G. Atwater, C. Kuhn, A. 
Crane. P.. Nelson, B. M. Hartshorne, J. L. W., B. W. Pratt, H. L. and A. Johnson and S. Raynor, F. Orth, S. and C. Loewenstein, F. 

A. Fairchild, L. Arms, A. L. Bidehman, C R. Jones, A. S.Pier, M. L. W. B., B. Bell. W. and B., M. W. and A. A. Aubin, Am, May and 
Eloise. T. K. Sturderaut, R. M. Abbott. G. Stanley, L. E. Bombard, E. A. Forbes, Cupid and Stupid, F. A. H. R. I. L., A. P. Wells, 
R. H. Baker, S. W. Reed, J. M. C. and A. S. A., H. Swift, M. A. Daggett, I J.. J. and B. Brawner, S. C. DeFollett, F. W. E., B. Hickey, 
H. H. Seaver, M. C. Maule, L. Packard, M Watts. H. Foster, M. E. Plummer, E. A. C, C. Holding, J. M. Bullock, T. Leonard, 

B. Cosgrove, F. B. Morey, " Nanki Poo," J. W. B. Young. L. M. D., Clara, K. Richards, E. Gregory, F. C. Hall, T. Rhodes, C. L. 
Smith, "Tiny Tim," P. F. Stevens, J. R. Slater, H. D. Slatei. B. Magie, C. H. B., F. C. Clarke, "Alpha," E. Bond, M. W. B., L. M. 
Barwood, E. C. Shearman, Jennie H., N. Krap, G. Welherell, R. T. Leipold, George, Retta, and Frances, H. George, "Odin," H. C. 
Stair. B Carmichael, H. S. Arnold, H. F. Fish, E. and F. Green, M. E. M. and L' M. H , P. E. Braem, L. W. Bosworth, E. P. Collin, 
A. C. Johnson, C. H. Thompson, R. Kelsey, C. C. Carpenter. L. Moses, E. R. Bassett, R. S. Bryant, G. K. Bell, H. Woltjen, J. C. 
Vorce, N. Kelker, M. G. Fiero, " Toboggan," A. Burnham, J. Gilmore, A. G. Culver, B. Glover, M. Richmond, A. A. and C. K. Post, 

F. M. Thomes, K. D. G., F. Gibb, G. taintor, M. and E. Woodruff, L. A. Clark, M. Shirk, A. H. S., M. R. Saunders, O. H. Duncan, 

C. M. C, S. T. Patton, G. A. Sullivan, P. Colby, W. S. Noble, E. Hall, W. C. P., E. R. Branson, E. McDermed, J. C. Drew, Nellie 
and Reggie, A. L. Frost, S. LeR. K., Lillie and Walter, L. C. A., J. R. Thomas, L. Davidson, E. E. Hutchinson, W. M. Spalding, 
M. T. S., M. Ailing, H. Williams. M. Mason, R. McCampbell. J. W. Motte, Jr., A. Strang, S. A. M., J. A. Norris, G. McCabe, 

A. Whitney, A. M. Hovey, E. M. Wheeler, A. H. Rundlett, B. Harrison. R. F. Day, Mona and Enna, Fanny, Tom, and Helen, L. East- 
man, F. Ellsworth, K. Washington and F. Innis, G. and H. Richards, B. and H. Read, A. S. Angel], T. Stanton, Nora and Alice, W. 
Jackson, N. E. E., L. Hall. Constant Reader, M. Granger, E. T. Parmelee, W. B. A. and C. H. A., A. D. Smith, M. M. McL., No Name, 

C. R. Macfarlane, E. A. Shockley, George and I.. E. Hardee, G. M. W., Tricyclist, C. Belden. M. Hinds, El Coyote, H. M. Zebley, 
J. C. Hanscom, E. M. Crane. "The Blankes." M. Hoyt, B. Hamilton, L. B. Audubon, J. W. Thompson, P. Mercer, "Peanuts," 

E. Morgan. A. Brooks, N. N. Wilson, R. Ware, J. M. Corning, Rachael, M. E. Whittier, B. and A. Fossard, M. L. Farwell, "St. Louis 
Pansy," W. F. Moody. Jr., M. A. Coe, E. H. Jones, Dot Lee. C. C Bridgman, B. Wheaton, M. A. Homer, M. Richards, M. and M. 
Blanchard, Jo. Ruby, Mamma, Nan, and I, R. L. Van Zandt, M. Du Roy, J. W. Lockett, K. Weeks, D. Conant and B. Colman, Buffett 
and Bogert, M. Ely, Katherine, D. B. Foster, D. and R. K., S. and B. Rhodes, H. E. Smith, A. N. Brown, H. W. Baldwin, G. P. Fogg, 
M. W. McNair, J. Howes, A. T. Bailey, I. S. B., E. G. H., M. C. Baker, H. A. Homer, F. Tobev. B. H. Esterly. A. Rhodes, M. and 

B. Boude, C. O. T., A. C. Everett, A. A. Clark, G. De W., M. A., H. L. Barnes, H. M. Reynolds, H. B. R., Neill, " Liz-Gus," S. R. 
Carter. E. Clark, R. S. Ferguson, B. Rhodes, M. M. G., C. H. E. Dunn, E. Barge. H. A. Hoadley, L. V. Waters, R. M. Thurston, 
Mrs. W. H. Gardiner, H. Schoch, Mabel, B. B. Purdy, J. Dary, M. Q. Newcomb, M. L. Wynn. J. Phelps. W. Hollidav. S. Douty, 

D. C. Smith, Jr.. R. T.Davis. Kittie and Nellie R. and Daisy K., R. Silvis, T. C. McLean.W. H. Trapp, H. Soun. W. Reynolds. Jr., O. M. 
Wolff, M. Smith, Ira, R. E. H., L. G. Colton, F. Potter, " Blithedale," L. Jackson, " P.'s and K.'s," A. Ross, Undine, G. W. Stoughton. 

F. D. Wilde, M. Agnew, W. M. Dudley. E. L. Kilbourne, B. Christie and S. McCabe. A. W. B., V. M. Ring. M. Torrance, " Two 
Pussies," M. L. Armstrong, A. A. B., J. D. B., A. E. B., W. Scott, A. Quackenbos, E. Miller, Cecil, E. B. Neal, M. Connor, L. Whitson, 
" Coon," A. C, S. C, and E. W. C, M. L. Shepard. " Bruz." N. F. Brent, L. Little, L. S. K.. " Dutch," W. S. Beaumont, M. Wood, 
T. S. Mosley, A. Auze, B. Aiken, F. L. Foshay, Vera W. B., L. M. Sprecher, F. Case, Mamie and Bess, W. M. Myers, " A Quintett," 
M. F. Jacques, L. L. G., L. D. C, N. and M. Chater, R. Richards, E. J. L'Engle, A. F. Brewster, J. M. W.. J. B. H. and M. G. B., 
Z. Leliand, K. L. Carlisle, W. M. Rugg, L. V. F., E. L. Ray, E. W. Whittemore. M. Lankton, L. Pepoon, C. H. Henderson, M. Calder, 
M. M. Bliss, W. M. Goodale. R. O. Howell, " Nero," A. L White, F. C. Ely, A. C. Moon, Stuart G., A. and E. Crowell, M. E W., C. 
Richon M. H. Reid, Ruby, G. Kellogg. " Lotus," " Wood Violet," E Bamberger, L. C. Rogers. J. A Wheat, V. and A. Myers, X. Y. Z., 
Samuel M., F. A. N., J. C. R. Taylor, L. A. F., W. M. and S. G. Small, M. de Ybarronds, E. S. White, M. W. Brown, H. C. B., A. R. 
Tilden, A. Whitton, May and Fay, W. H. Townsend, L. Loutrel. J. Duffy, J. Berryman, Eva B., M. C. Myers, Elinor Louise, "Girls 
of Ascension Hall," Billvand Papa McClintock. E. G. Rogers, M. Blake, A. G. Davis, C. F. Everdell, W. W. R., E. E. Denny, C. L. V. S , 
L. F. McWhorter, L. H. S., E. L. Carpenter. C. C. F., J. B. F., Frank, R. A. Newlin. B. Jackson, W. Street, R. H. Hobart, J. B. Hub- 
bard, J. R. B., M. Chandler, R. H. Banker, W. Walden, M. A. Y., M B. Breed, S. C. C, W. J. McClure, F. L. Hamilton, N. Hammond, 
F. Waterman. G. W. Allen, E V. Slagle, V. B. and I. M. Jacobs. A. Muldoon, Essie, F. R. Schoonmaker, Mrs. A. L. Ellis, "Ted," 

E. A. Miller, Win. C. Krichbaum. W. A. Greene, F. M. Blizard. C. W.. G. and J. Lamb, L. G. Dietrick, J. A. Reed, E. and M. St. John, 
M. E. B.. C. K. and G. K., C. Burbank, E. E., Doucy, M. L. Kleinschmidt, " Sunshine," L. Jones, Yum Yum. ( To be continued.) 





Triangle. From 1 to 8, May Queen ; from 9 to 15, May-pole. 
Cross-words: 1. M. 2. Am. 3. Yea. 4. Quay. 5. Usurp. 6. 
Eskimo. 7. Eternal. 8. Nominate. 

An Anagrammatical Puzzle. Facetiousness. 

Beheadings. Bartholdi. Cross-words: 1. B-are. 2. A-cid. 
3. R-ace. 4. T-our. 5. H-arm. 6. O-men. 7. L-ore. 8. D-ark. 
9. I-con. 

Central Acrostic. Central letters, Early. Cross-words: 1. 
dr-E-am. 2. se-A-ts. 3. bo-R-ne. 4. ho-L-ly. 5. mo-Y-le. 

Word-square, i. Heart. 2. Eager. 3. Agree. 4. Reeds. 
5. Tress. 

Star Puzzle. From 1 to 2, demerit; 1 to 3, dentate; 2 to 3, 
tactile; 4 to 5, memento; 4 to 6, maracan ; 5 to 6, oration. 

Double Acrostic. Primals, Philip ; finals, Sydney. Cross- 

A Bird Puzzle, i. Oil-bird. 2. Lyre-bird. 3. Butcher-bird. 
4. Umbrella-bird. 5. Cat-bird. 6. Honey-bird. 7. Cow-bird. 8. 
Brush-bird. 9. Bell-bird. 10. Snake-bird. n. Frigate-bird. 12. 
Cedar-bird. 13. Thorn-bird. 14. Sun-bird. 15. King-bird. 16. 
Weaver-bird. 17. Ant-bird. 18. Oven-bird. 19. Tailor-bird. 20. 

Rhomboid. Across: 1. Gyrate. 2. Easels. 3. Menace. 4. 
Rotate. 5. Rental. 6. Stated. 

Combination Puzzle. Across ; 
3. Cub. 4. N. 5. Ago. 6. Bream 
3. Annul. 4. Kindred. 5 Lurid. 
Men. 3. Macaw. 4. Decreed. 

1. New York. 2. 
Parried II. 1. K. 

3. Inflamed, 4. Lengthen. 

IV. 1. Nodular. 2. Polka. 3. Aye. 
7. Dissent. 

Historical Numerical Enigma. 

Cross-word Enigma. Cowslip. 

6. Led. 7. 

5. Naeve. 


C. Wee. 

5. Ask. 6. 

2. Ail. 
D. 2. 
7 . D. 

Ptolemy Philadelphus. 

words : 1. Pleiades. 2. Honestly. 
5. Impolite. 6. Pedantry, 

To our Puzzlers: In consequence of advancing the date of issue, hereafter answers, to be acknowledged in the magazine, must 
be received not later than the 15th of each month. Answers should be addressed to St. Nicholas " Riddle-box," care of The Century 
Co., 33 East Seventeenth St., New-York City. 

Answers to all the Puzzles in the March Number were received, before March 20, from Arthur Gride — Maud E. Palmer — 
Harry H. Meeder — Willie C- Serrell — " Agricolo " — " Z. Y. X." — Paul Reese — " Rowena " — Julia and Papa — Nellie B. and Elise 
Ripley — Russell Davis — " Betsy and Patsy "— Blanche and Fred — "Sam Anselmo" — Belle Murdock — Winne D. Booth — Maggie T. 
Turrill — Auntie, Jamie, and Mamma — Mary Ludlow — Nellie and Reggie — K. G. S. — - M. E. d'A. — "Solomon Quill" — " Mab and 
Jap" — R. B. Stone — Mamma and Fanny — "Nero" — F. W. Islip. 

Answers to Puzzles in the March Number were received, before March 20, from B. B. P., 2 — "Humbug O.," 3 — Polly, 2 — 
Kathie Lee, 11 — Hezekiah and Jedediah, 2 — Crystal, 5 — " Fin MacCool," 5 — W. W. B., Jr., 1 — Kate Bell, 2 — " Patty Pan," 2 — Dick 
and D., 3— "Maid Marjory," 6— " Castilian," 2 — X. L. C. R., 1— L. H. L. and D. M., 7— R. V. 0., 7 — Mary G. Wilbur, 1— " Vaulx," 
Nashville, 1 — " Goose," 1 — Louise Tallant, 1 — Ellie and Susie, 4 — Marie and Jessie, 1 — C. E. Ruth, 7 — C. F. M., 4 — Mamma, Clara, 
and Minnie, 11 — Sadie and Bessie Rhodes, 10 — " Ayes," 4 — Effie K. Talboys, 9 — " Ben Zeene," 3 — Lotta Linthicum, 1 — J. W. and 
L. L. Lloyd, 10 — "Lehte," 10 — Isabel C. A., 5 — Edward North, 3 — " Professor and Co.," 11 — "May and 79," 9 — "Rose May- 
bud," 9 — " Sally Lumm " and " Johnny Cake," 9 — " Family Kid," 8 — " Le Brecht," 10 — John G. Vogt, 4 — " Bill Jones," 1 — N. L. 
Howes, 10 — G. L. M., 3 — " Blithedale," 11 — "Fanned," 10 — L. C. B., 10 — "Friends," 10 — "Juan and Juanita," 1 — "Prince 
Karl," 2 — Eleanor and Maude, 3 — Nell R., 9 — R. H. and M. P., 9 — Original Puzzle Club, 10— A. G. L., 6— B. Koehler, 10 — 
" Lock and Key," 1 — H. H. C, 1 — H. D., 6 — "Two Cousins," 11 — No Name, Chicago, 6 — Clare and Bessie, 9 — Aurora, 2 — Ber- 
tha Bowers, 1 — Harou, 3 — Lee, 1. 


and leave a Hebrew measure. 6. Behead to run away and leave to 
leap. 7. Behead a rambler and leave above. 

The beheaded letters will spell the name of a famous orator. 

sue and may. 

Across : 1. A disposition to deceive. 2. Errand. 3. A passage 
in a church 4. To plunder. 5. One hundred. 6. Purpose. 7. To 
frighten. 8. Defeating. 9. To tum into ridicule. 

The central letters, reading downward, spell a partner. 

p. and l. 

1. In temperate. 2. A border of lace. 3. Exhausts. 4. A charac- 
ter in Mrs. Centlivre's comedy of " The Busybody." 5. To slander. 
6. An old name for a large wooden vessel for holding water. 7. In 
temperate. l. and p. 


I. Upper Left-hand Diamond : 1. In mercy. 2. Hurtful. 3. 
Presages. 4. A plank used for supporting the earth in mines. g. 
An infidel. 6. Firm. 7. In mercy. 

II. Upper Right-hand Diamond: i. In mercy. 2. To com- 
pute. 3. Five-sixths of a word meaning the outer part. 4. Mak- 
ing red. 5 Covers for the hands. 6. Three-fourths of a word mean- 
ing to venture. 4. In mercy. 

III. Central Diamond: i. In mercy. 2. A boy's nickname. 
3. One who drinks to excess. 4. Club-formed. 5. A white insol- 
uble powder, discovered by Liebig. 6. The edge. 7. In mercy. 

IV. Lower Left-hand Diamond: i. In mercy. 2. A boy's 
nickname. 3. The name of one of the royal families of England. 4. 
A masculine name. 5. Virtuous. 6. Three-fourths of a small 
stream. 7. In mercy. 

V. Lower Right-hand Diamond : 1. In mercy. 2. A cup. 
3. Five-sixths of a marsh. 4. Crookedness. 5. Merrily. 6. A pen. 
7. In mercy. mary ludlow. 


1. Behead to mix and leave to loan. 2. Behead an occurrence 
and leave to utter. 3. Behead to correct and leave to repair. 4. Be- 
head spotless and leave attenuated. 5. Behead the name of a poet 

From i to 2, a city in Warwickshire, England ; from 2 to 4, a long 
Turkish dagger; 3 to 4, instruction given by way of caution; 1 to 
3, a plant growing in the East Indies, the seeds of which are used 
in medicine ; 5 to 6, a musical instrument similar to the guitar; 6 to 
8, the poison which comes from tobacco ; 7 to 8, covered with a shell 
made of plates ; 5 to 7, a monument; 1 to 5, free from agitation; 2 
to 6, a sailor's story ; 4 to 8, a number; 3 to 7, to post. 

" myrtle green." 




All of the twelve objects may be described by words of equal length. When these have been rightly guessed, and placed one below 
the other, one of the perpendicular rows of letters will spell two words which are always associated with a certain day in June. 

is swift. My 98-44-71-16- 3 is a mountain nymph. My 90-95-23- 
41-9 is partakes of a meal. My 74-12-61-66 is a vegetable growth. 
My 77-22-52-69-115 is having the qualities offish. My3i-25~7isa 
small fruit. My 19-108-72-51 is a cart used for heavy burdens. 



Example : Take to have on from affirming solemnly and leave 
to utter musically. Answer, S-wear-ing. 

1. Take a loud sound from removing a cause to a higher court and 
leave mocking. 2. Take to presage from habitations and leave a 
Roman weight. 3. Take a serpent from holding fast and leave to 
adhere. 4. Take a number from to intensify and leave a fowl. 5. 
Take beyond from treating with contempt and leave to throw. 6. 
Take a spike of corn from cut and leave a hut. gilbert forrest. 


The letters indicated by stars are used in both rhomboids. 

I. Left-hand rhomboid. Across: r. To close. 2. An opening. 
3. Carriage. 4. A sacred vessel. Downward : 1. In profit. 2. A 
river of Europe. 3. A river of Europe. 4. Kind. 5. Anything 
small. 6. A conjunction. 7. In profit. 

II. Right-hand rhomboid. Across: 1. To impede. 
3. To swagger. 4. An ancient city. Downward : 
2. A preposition. 3. A sphere. 4. To_ separate. 5. 

2. Spoken. 
i. In yeast. 
A household 

deity among the ancient Romans. 

6. To proceed. 7. In yeast. 



My first is in cold, but not in heat ; 
My second in slow, but not in fleet ; 
My third is in broad, but not in slim ; 
My fourth is in stiff, but not in prim; 
My fifth is in scratch, but not in rub; 
My sixth is in cane, but not in club ; 
My seventh in grip, but not in clinch: 
My whole is said to be good at a pinch. 

" LOU C. LEE." 


I AM composed of one hundred and sixteen letters, and form four 
lines of a famous poem. 

My 106-S-96-38-57-47-64-111-33-84 is sorcery. My 50-10-116- 
88-67-17-76-26-1-28-82-39-62 is a killing. My 91-73-6-79-1 1-94 is 
a public speaker. My 24-85-49-78-100-54 is a feminine name. My 
80-110-6S-103-59-86-102 is a place mentioned in the Bible. My 
14-70-42-37-65-46-35-93 is a respite. My 43-S3-104-40-21 is a foe. 
My 75-55-18-53-5-30-56 is a pagan. My 15-60-87-2-63 is an occur- 
rence. My 20-101-114-112-109 is to frighten. My 97-29-81-13-45 
is a bundle of stalks of grain. My 92-32-89-27 is a trailing plant. 
My 4-107-1 05-36 is articles of merchandise. My 99-113-58-34-48 


Each of the eleven following groups of letters may be transposed 
so as to form one word. When these eleven words are placed one 
below another, in the order here given, the diagonals, beginning 
with the first letter of the first word and ending with the last letter of 
the last word, will spell two words often heard at this season of the 
year. The diagonals, beginning with the first letter of the second 
word and ending with next to the last letter of the last word, will spell 
two more words often heard on Decoration Day. 

I. M A R E U G I T H E M. 

N A N T E R S T O R M. 
I H U N G O T W I G E. 
S H U N D B L A S E S. 
N E D L E V F U N G I. 
G R A M Y C O D T I E. 



Vol. XIV. 

JULY, 1887. 

No. 9. 

[Copyright, 18S7, by The CENTURY CO.; 

By Hjalmar Hjorth Boyesen. 

" QUEER sort o' chap that Fiddle-John is," said 
the men, when Fiddle-John went by. 

" Quaint sort o' cr'atur' is Fiddle-John," echoed 
the women; " not much in the providin' line." 

" A singular individual is that Violin-John," 
said the parson ; "I can never make up my mind 
whether he is a worthless scamp or a man of 
genius." "Possibly both," suggested the parson's 
wife. "Apartments to let," remarked the daugh- 
ter, tapping her forehead significantly. 

" Hurrah ! There is Fiddle-John," cried the 
children, flocking delightedly about him, clinging 
to his arms, his legs, and his coat-tails. " Sing us 
a song, Fiddle-John ! Tell us a story ! " 

Then Fiddle-John would seat himself on a stone 
at the roadside, while the children nestled about 
him ; and he would tell them stories about knights 
and ladies, and ogres, and princesses, and all sorts 
of marvelous things. 

" Worthless fellow, that Fiddle-John," said the 
passers-by ; " there he sits in the middle of the day 

talking nonsense to the children, when he ought 
to be working for the support of his family." 

It was perfectly true ; Fiddle-John ought to 
have been working. He would readily have admit- 
ted that himself. He was well aware that his wife, 
Ingeborg, was at home working like a trooper to 
keep the family from starving. But then, some- 
how, Fiddle-John had no taste for work, while 
Ingeborg had. He much preferred singing songs 
and telling stories. And a very pretty picture he 
made, as he sat there at the roadside, with his 
handsome, gentle face, his large blue eyes, and 
his wavy blonde hair, and the children nestling 
about him, listening in wide-eyed wonder. There 
was something very attractive about his face, with 
its mild, melancholy smile, and a sort of diffident, 
questioning look in the eyes. He had an odd 
habit of opening his mouth several times before 
he spoke, and then, possibly, if his questioner's 
face did not please him, he would go away, having 
said nothing. And, after all, it was diffidence and 




not insolence which prompted this action. It 
would never have occurred to Fiddle-John to take 
a critical view of anybody ; he approved of all 
humanity in general, only he had an intuitive 
suspicion when any one was making fun of him, 
and in such cases he found safety only in flight 
and silence. 

By profession Fiddle-John was a ballad-singer. 
A queer profession, you will say, but nevertheless 
one which in Norway enjoys a certain recognition. 
He had a voice which any singer might have en- 
vied him, — a clear and sweet tenor which rang 
through the depths of the listener's soul. Hear- 
ing that voice, it was impossible not to stay and 
listen. The deputy sheriff, who once came to ar- 
rest Fiddle-John for vagrancy, when Fiddle-John 
began to sing, sat and cried. It "came over" 
him so "very queer," he said. The parson, who 
had made up his mind to give Fiddle-John a 
very vigorous reproof for neglect of his family, 
the first time he should catch him, quite forgot 
his sinister purpose when, one day, he saw the 
ballad-singer seated under a large tree, with a 
dozen children climbing over him, and, with rol- 
licking laughter, tumbling and rolling about him. 
And when Fiddle-John, having quieted his au- 
dience, took two little girls on his lap, while the 
boys scrambled and fought for the places nearest 
to him, the parson could not for the life of him 
recall the harsh things he had meant to say to 
Fiddle-John. The fact was, — though, of course, 
it is scarcely fair to tell, — the ballad which Fiddle- 
John sang to the children reminded the parson of 
the time (now long gone) when he himself was 
paying court to Mrs. Parson, and sometimes on 
slight provocation dropped into poetry. 

' Thy cheeks are like the red, red rose, 
Thy hands are like the lily." 

These were the very extraordinary sentiments 
which the parson had, at that remote period, pro- 
fessed toward Mrs. Parson, and these were the very 
words which Fiddle-John was now singing. No 
wonder the parson forgot that he had come to 
scold Fiddle-John. " I suppose that such good- 
for-nothings maybe good for something, after all," 
he said to his wife as he related the incident at the 

Fiddle-John and his family lived in a little cot- 
tage close up under the mountain-side, where the 
sun did not reach it until late in the afternoon. In 
the winter, they were sometimes snowed down so 
completely that they had to work until noon before 
they could get a glimpse of the sky. The two 
boys, Alf and Truls, would go early in the morn- 
ing with their snow-shovels, and dig a tunnel to 

the cow-stable, where a lonely cow, a pig, and 
three sheep were penned up. Their father would 
then sit at the window, holding a lantern, the light 
of which vaguely penetrated the darkness and 
showed them in what direction they were digging; 
but, after a while, this monotonous occupation 
wearied him, and he would take his fiddle and 
play the most mournful tunes he could think of. 
It never occurred to him to lend a helping hand ; 
and it never occurred to the boys to ask him. 

They accepted their fate without much reason- 
ing; it seemed part of the right order of things 
that they and their mother should work, while 
their father played and sang. Ingeborg, their 
mother, had nursed a kind of tender reverence for 
him in their hearts, since they were babes. He 
seemed scarcely part of the coarse and common 
work-a-day world to which they belonged ; with 
his gentle, handsome face and his clear blue eyes, 
he seemed like some superior being who conferred 
a favor upon them by merely consenting to grant 
them his company. His songs traveled from one 
end of the valley to the other, and everybody 
learned them by heart and sang them at weddings, 
dances, and funerals. Even though the parishion- 
ers might themselves find fault with Fiddle-John, 
and call him quaint and queer, they stood up 
for him bravely if a stranger ventured to attack 

They knew there was not another such singer in 
the whole land, and it was even said that people 
had come from foreign lands and had made him 
enormous offers, if he would go with them and 
sing at concerts in the great foreign cities. Thou- 
sands of dollars he might have earned if he had 
gone, but Fiddle-John knew better than to aban- 
don the valley of his birth, where he had been 
known since his babyhood, and trust himself to 
the faithless foreign world. Thousands of dollars ! 
Only think of it ! The very thought made Fiddle- 
John dizzy ; ten or twenty dollars would have pre- 
sented something definite to his imagination, 
which he would have comprehended ; but thou- 
sands of dollars was a blank enormity which diffused 
itself like mist through his dazed brain. And yet 
Fiddle-John could never stop thinking of the 
thousands of dollars which he might have earned 
if he had gone with the foreigner. If the truth 
must be told, he himself would have liked well 
enough to go; and it was only the persuasions 
of Ingeborg, his wife, which had restrained him. 
" What could you do in the great foreign world, 
John," she had said to him ; " you, with your want 
of book-learning and your simple peasant ways? 
They would laugh at you, John, dear, and that 
would make me cry, and we should both be mis- 
erable. And all the little children here in the 

■ 88 7 .) 



valley, what would they do without you, and who 
would sing to them and tell them stories when you 
were gone ? " 

That last argument was what decided Fiddle- 
John. He did not believe that people would 
laugh at him in the great foreign world, but he 
did believe that the children would miss him 
when he was gone, and he could not bear to think 
of some one else sitting under the great linden-tree 
at the roadside and telling them stories. For all 
that, he regretted many a time that he had been 
soft-hearted, and had allowed the gate of glory to 
be slammed in his face, as he expressed it. He had 
never suspected it before ; but now the thought 
began to grow upon him that he was a great man, 
who might have gained honor and renown if his 
wife had not deprived him of the opportunity. 

Every day, the valley seemed to be growing 
darker and narrower ; the sight of the mountains 
became oppressive ; it was as if they weighed upon 
Fiddle-John's breast and impeded his breath. 
With feverish restlessness he roamed about from 
farm to farm and played, until every string on his 
fiddle seemed on the point of snapping. 

" I am a great man," he reflected indignantly, 
"and might have earned thousands of dollars. 
And yet here I go and fiddle away for boors at 
twenty-five cents a night." 

And to drown the voices that rose clamorously 
out of the depths of his soul, he strummed the 
strings wildly ; and the peasants whirled madly 
around him, and shouted till the rafters in the ceil- 
ing rang. The gentleness and the mild radiance 
which had made the children love him passed out 
of his countenance; his eyes grew restless, his mo- 
tions aimless and unsteady. Sometimes he flung 
back his head defiantly and mumbled threats be- 
tween his teeth ; at other times he shuffled along 
dejectedly. Once he lay under a tree, dreaming 
of the great world now forever closed to him. 

" If I had only dared ! " he whispered to himself; 
"oh, if I had only dared ! " 

At that moment some one stepped up to him 
and shook him by the shoulder. " Hallo, old 
chap," said the man, "you are just the fellow I 
want ! You are the party they call Fiddle-John ? " 

There was something brisk and aggressive about 
the stranger which almost frightened Fiddle-John. 
It was easy to see that he came from afar; for he 
had smartly cut city clothes, a tall shiny hat, and 
a huge watch-chain from which half a dozen seals 
and trinkets depended. Fiddle-John had never 
seen anything so magnificent ; he was completely 
dazzled. He sat half-raised upon his elbow and 
stared at the stranger in mute wonder. "Well, 
Fiddle-John," the latter went on glibly; "you 
don't seem very cordial to an old friend. Or per- 

haps you don't know me. I must have changed 
some since you used to tell me stories about the 
Ashiepattle and the ogre who stowed his heart 
away, for safe-keeping, inside of a duck in a goose- 
pond some thousands of miles off. I have often 
thought of that story since. The fact is, that is 
just the kind of arrangement I am after. I 've too 
much heart, Fiddle-John, too much heart. My 
heart is always getting me into trouble, and if I 
could make an arrangement to leave it behind here 
in Norway, while I myself return to America, I 
should like it first-rate. You don't happen to know 
of any party who would be willing to keep it for 
me during my absence, — hey, Fiddle-John ? " 

The man here laughed uproariously and slapped 
Fiddle-John on the shoulder. 

" You are just the same old customer you used 
to be, Fiddle-John," he said in a tone of cordial 
good-fellowship; "but you don't seem as talka- 
tive as you used to be, — don't even tell me you are 
glad to see me. Now, that 's what I call hard, Fid- 
dle-John. Don't even know the name of your little 
friend James Forrest — or — beg your pardon — 
Jens Skoug, I mean to say, who used to climb on 
your back and listened in rapture to your wonder- 
ful voice and your marvelous fairy tales." 

A gleam of intelligence flitted across Fiddle- 
John's features, as he heard the name Jens Skoug, 
and he arose with bashful hesitancy and extended 
his hand to the talkative stranger. He remem- 
bered well that Jens's family had emigrated, some 
ten years before, to the United States, and he re- 
membered also vividly the uncouth little creature in 
skin-patched trousers and ragged jacket who had 
embarked, at that time, in the great steamer that 
came to take the emigrants off to Bergen. And 
now this little creature was a tall, dazzling man with 
a silk hat and showy jewelry, and an address which 
a prince might have envied. Thus reasoned Fid- 
dle-John in his simplicity. Such a marvelous trans- 
formation he had never in all his life witnessed. The 
name James Forrest which Jens had dropped, quite 
as if by accident, also impressed him strangely. 
It seemed to add greatly to Jens's magnificence. A 
man who could afford to have such a foreign-sound- 
ing name must indeed be a person of enterprise 
and prominence. It surrounded Jens with a de- 
lightful foreign flavor which captivated his friend 
even more than his brilliant talk. "Jens," he said, 
making an effort to conquer his diffidence, " you 
have grown to be a great man, indeed. How could 
you expect me to recognize you ? " 

"A great man," exclaimed Jens, expanding 
agreeably under his friend's sincere flattery; "no, 
Fiddle-John, I am not a great man, — that is, not 
yet, Fiddle-John. But I mean to become a great 
man before I die. In America, where I live, every 




man can become great if he only chooses to. But I 
thought, being young yet, that I could afford to 
spend a couple of months in opening to my country- 
men the same road to fortune which is open to my- 
self, before I settled down to tackle life in earnest. 
The fact is, Fiddle-John, as I said before, I have too 
much heart. My conscience would leave me no 
peace, whenever I thought of my poor countrymen 
who were toiling here at home for twenty-five or forty 
cents a day, and scarcely could keep body and soul 
together, while I could earn five and ten dollars a 
day as readily as I could turn a handspring. I posi- 
tively cried, Fiddle-John, cried like a girl, when 
I thought of you and your small chaps and of all 
the other poor fellows here in the valley who had 
such a hard time of it, tearing off their caps and 
bowing and scraping before the parson and the 
judge and all the big folk, while in America we 
step up to the President himself, and chat with 
him as familiarly as we please. And, likely as 
not, if you call upon him with a note from me, 
and he should take a fancy to you, he may set you 
up in a fat office, where you may feel yourself as 
big as the very biggest." 

Fiddle-John listened with eager ears and open 
mouth to this alluring narrative. It did not occur 
to him to question the truth of what Jens said, for 
did not his appearance and his independent and 
dazzling demeanor plainly show that he was a 
great and prosperous man ? And, moreover, how 
could he have undergone such a startling transfor- 
mation in a few years, if it had not been true, as 
he said, that the President of the United States or 
some other mighty personage took an interest in 
him ? Fiddle-John had often heard it said that in 
America all things were possible ; and he had him- 
self read letters from persons who there at home 
had been poor tenants or even day laborers, and 
who in the new country had become colonels, and 
merchants, and legislators. Therefore, he was not 
in the least surprised at the good luck which had 
overtaken his former friend. He was only sur- 
prised that the thought of going to America had 
never occurred to him before, and he made up his 
mind on the spot to sell his cow, his pig, and his 
three sheep, and take the first ship for New York. 
He could scarcely stop to bid Jens Skoug good- 
bye, so eager was he to rush home and commu- 
nicate his resolution to his wife and children. He 
foresaw that he would meet with opposition from 
Ingeborg ; but he steeled his heart against all her 
entreaties and vowed to himself that this time he 
would have his own way. He would not permit 
her again to snatch the chance of greatness away 
from him. 

He was flushed and breathless when he reached 
his little cottage up under the mountain-wall. It 

had never looked so mean and miserable to him 
as it did at that moment. The walls were propped 
up on the north and west sides with long beams ; 
and dry, brownish grass of the year before grew in 
tufts along the roof-tree and drooped down over 
the eaves. His two sons, Alt" and Truls, were 
playing bear with their little sister Karen, who was 
seven years old. But they rose hurriedly when 
they saw their father, and brushed the sand from 
the knees of their trousers. There was some- 
thing in his bearing and in the expression of his 
face which vaguely alarmed them. He stooped 
no more in walking, but strode along proudly with 
uplifted head. 

" Boys," he cried joyously, " run in and tell 
your mother, to-morrow we are going to Amer- 
ica ! " Ingeborg, who was just coming across the 
yard with a lamb in her arms, paused in conster- 
nation, and gazed with a frightened expression at 
her husband. 

" What has happened to you, John ? " she 
asked gently. " I thought that matter about the 
foreigner was settled long ago." 

"I tell you, no!" he shouted wildly; "it is 
not settled. It never will be settled, so long as 
there is breath left in my body. This time I mean 
to have my own way. Jens Skoug has come back 
from America, and he says that America is the 
place for me. I knew it all along, and whether 
you will follow me or not, I am going." 

"Follow you, John? Yes, if go you must, then 
I will follow you. But to America I will not go 
willingly, unless I know what we are to do there, 
and how we are to make our living. It is a long, 
long distance, John, across the great ocean; they 
speak a language there which neither you nor I 

Fiddle-John turned impatiently on his heel, as 
if to say that he knew all that twaddle of old ; 
but Ingeborg, giving the lamb to Alf, went up to 
him, laid her hand on his arm, and said : 

" You and I have lived together for so many 
years, John, and we love each other too well ever 
to be happy away from each other ! Don't let us 
speak harsh words. They rankle in the heart 
and cause pain, long after they are spoken. If 
you must go to America, I will go with you. But 
I have a feeling that I shall never get there alive. 
I beg of you, don't decide rashly and don't believe 
all that Jens Skoug tells you. He was not a truth- 
ful child, and I doubt if he has grown up to be a 
good man. Let us say no more about it to-night. 
We will sleep on it, and see how it will look to us 

Fiddle-John was not a bad fellow ; on the con- 
trary, he was quite soft-hearted and easily moved. 
This wife of his had toiled in poverty and ill 

i88 7 .] 



health all her life long, and he had never offered 
to lift a finger to help her. Yet she loved him, 
accepting her lot meekly, and never uttering a 
word of reproach against him. He had never ob- 
served before how thin and worn she looked, how 
hollow her cheeks were, and how large her eyes. 
He felt for the first time in his life a pang of 
remorse. He had not been a good husband, he 
thought, — not as good as he might have been. But 
then he was a great man, and great men were 
never the best of husbands. And when he reached 
America, and his greatness became generally rec- 
ognized, and fortune began to smile upon him, 
then he would shower kindness upon her, and she 
should be rewarded a thousand-fold for all she had 
suffered. Surely, he would turn over a new leaf — 
in America. 

Thus Fiddle-John consoled himself when his 
conscience grew uneasy. When once they got 
to America, he reasoned, then everything would 

be right. He would have started without delay, 
if Ingeborg's health had not failed so rap- 
idly that the doctor positively forbade her to 
think of traveling. The look of suffering and 
sweet forbearance upon her face seemed a perpet- 
ual reproach to Fiddle-John, and he roamed rest- 
lessly from one end of the valley to the other, 
playing, singing, and telling his stories, — in order 
to earn money for the voyage, he said to his sons ; 
but, in reality, to escape from the unspoken re- 
proach of his wife's countenance. But the day 
soon came when he needed no longer to flee from 
her presence. 

One bright day in early spring, just as the snow 
was melting, and the bare spots on the meadows 
steamed in the sun, Ingeborg closed her weary- 
eyes forever ; and a few days later she was laid 
to rest in the shadow of the old church, down on 
the headland, where the song-thrush warbles 
through the brief Arctic summer night. 

(To be cotitiiiued. ) 

By Frank Dempster Sherman. 

ULY — for you the songs are sung 
By birds the leafy trees among ; 
With merry carolings they wake 
The meadows at the morning's break, 
And through the day the lisping breeze 
Is woven with their tree-top glees. 
For you the prattling, pebbly brooks 
Are full of tales like story-books. 
For you a fragrant incense burns 
Within the garden's blossom-urns 
Which tempt the bees to hasten home 
With honey for their honey-comb. 

The river, like a looking-glass, 

Reflects the fleecy clouds that pass, 

Until it makes us almost doubt 

If earth and sky are n't changed about. 

July — for you, in silence deep 

The world seems fallen fast asleep, 

Save on one glorious holiday, 

When all our books we put away 

And every little maid and man 

Is proud to be American ! 






By Frank R. Stockton. 

£*:_: ?fo\ i?,i2 


DURING our stay in England we shall discover, if 
we pay attention to what people say and do, that 
Great Britain is divided into two grand divisions : 
one is London, and the other is the rest of the 
kingdom. When any one in England says that 
he is going to town, we may know that he is going 
to London. If he intended to visit any other of 
the great English cities, he would mention Man- 
chester. Liverpool, Birmingham, or whatever its 
name might be. Town life means London life, 
and the other cities, no matter how large and impor- 
tant they are, are considered provincial, and a little 

An American boy or girl, who knows something 
of country life in a land which stretches from the 
Atlantic to the Pacific and covers a great part of a 
continent, will be apt to think that England, about 
as large as the State of Illinois, and with a pop- 
ulation of over thirty millions, must be so full of 
people that no part of it could have that quiet and 
secluded character which belongs to real country 

life. But this is a mistake. A great portion of 
the population of England is so packed and 
crowded into its cities, towns, and villages that 
there are wide extents of country which are as 
rural and pastoral as any lover of country life need 
desire to see, unless, indeed, he be fond only 
of the primeval forest or the trackless prairie. 
In this little country we may even find forests which 
are quite extensive, and far-reaching districts, like 
the great moors of Devonshire, which in parts 
are almost as desolate and uninhabited as a wild 

But the great population of England has had 
a peculiar influence upon the appearance of the 
country. Where there have been so many peo- 
ple at work, a vast deal of work has been done. 
The land is well and even beautifully cultivated; 
the roads are almost as smooth and hard as a 
driveway in a park, and there is a general appear- 
ance of order and high culture which could 
not be expected in a country like ours, where 

i88 7 .] 



there is so much to do and so few, comparatively, 
to do it. 

England owes one of its greatest beauties to 
its climate. We need not wonder that its fields 
and hillsides are so richly green, and that its trees 
and hedgerows are so verdant and luxuriant, 
when we consider that the whole country is well 
watered nearly every day. Rainy, or at least 
showery, weather is so common in England that 
most things which flourish when well supplied 
with water are bound to flourish there. It is 

ent there from what it is with us. A gentle rain is 
not regarded, and I have heard two men, standing 
under umbrellas in a drizzling sprinkle, remark to 
each other that it was a fine day. 

I wish my young companions to see for them- 
selves what real rural life and rural scenery is in 
England, and so I shall take them with me to a 
place which is as truly "out in the country" as 
any spot we are likely to visit on this island. It is 
not a wild moorland nor a thinly populated mount- 
ainous district, but a place where we can see the 

_ -~::-w>" 


not pleasant to be caught in a shower when 
one least expects it, or to go out in the rain 
because it will be of no use to wait until the 
rain is over; but, on the other hand, it is de- 
lightful to look upon the charming country which 
springs up under a watering-pot sky. But there 
are often clear, sunny days in England, and 
while we are in that country we must imitate the 
English people, and when it does rain we must not 
mind it. The idea of good weather is very differ- 

Vol. XIV. — 46. 

ordinary country life as we read about it in Eng- 
lish books and stories. 

We begin our journey by going to Paddington 
Station, London, where we take tickets for Prince's 
Risborough, a little town on the Great Western 
Railway. For a time we roll swiftly along on the 
main line of the Great Western, but soon branch 
off on a single-track road, on which we go as 
slowly, and stop as often, as on some of our own 
railroads. In about two hours we reach Prince's 




Risborough, a small town in Buckinghamshire. 
This county is generally called Bucks for short. 

Our destination, 
however, is Monk's 
Risborough, which 
is a little village, two 
or three miles farther 
in the country. At 

sons ; and our baggage, which in England is 
called "luggage," is carried in a "van," or 
spring-wagon. We drive away over a smooth 
hard road, and although it is raining steadily, and 
we are obliged to keep the carriage windows shut, 
we see that we are passing through a very pretty 
country, which will be a great deal prettier when 
the sun shines. At Monk's Risborough, which is 
a very little village, we do not stop, but go still 
farther on to a very pleasant country house where 
we have arranged to stay for a week or so. 

There we shall find what English people are at 
home, and I am sure we shall like them very 
much. The lady of the house greets us very cor- 
dially, and immediately wishes to know if we will 


the station we take "flies," not blue-bottle ones, 
but one-horse carriages, each holding four per- 

have some tea, which 
is presently served to 
us, accompanied by 
thin slices of bread 
and butter. The Eng- 
lish are very fond of tea, and at what- 
ever hour of the afternoon we visit 
them, we are very sure of getting some. 
Here we shall be pleasantly lodged, 
and every day we shall have four good meals; 
breakfast about nine o'clock, — not the simple meal 

.88 7 .] 



of bread and coffee to which we were accustomed 
on the Continent, but plenty of ham or bacon, 
eggs, marmalade, water-cress or some such fresh 
green, tea and coffee, toast, and bread and butter, 
but no hot fresh bread. At two o'clock we have din- 
ner, very much like a good country dinner at home, 
and if any of us are fond of gooseberry or apple 
tarts, we shall probably think that we never tasted 
any better than those we have here. In England 
a '"' pie " means pastry with meat, such as a veal, 
a pork, or a chicken pie, while pastries with fruit 
are called tarts. At five o'clock the tea-bell rings, 
when we sit around a table well supplied with 
bread and butter, several kinds of cake, and pre- 
serves ; while the lady of the house sits behind a 
teapot and a hot-water pot, each covered with a 
great embroidered "cosey,"like a giant's night- 
cap, and these are kept on when the tea is not 
actually pouring out, so that it has no chance 
to get cool. Between eight and nine we have sup- 
per, which is a substantial meal, consisting of cold 
meat, with lettuce or some other salad, bread and 
butter, and cheese, and for those who like malt 
liquors plenty of brown stout and ale, but no tea or 
coffee. We might imagine that such a meal at this 
hour would interfere with our night's sleep, but in 
this country it does not seem to do so. It is 
asserted that there is something in the climate of 
England which enables people to eat and drink 
more without injury than they can in our drier and 
thinner air. Among people in higher life, in coun- 
try as well as town, it is customary to have very 
late dinners, but we are concerned with the ordi- 
nary rural life of what is called the English middle 

The next morning we start out to see the country, 
and the first place we go to is Monk's Risborough. 
This little village, or hamlet, was once part of the 
property of the monks of Canterbury, and so came 
by its name. It is one of the quaintest and most 
old-fashioned villages in England. Most of the 
houses are cottages inhabited by poor people. 
The roofs are thatched, and the windows, which 
are very small, and open on hinges like doors, 
have little panes, about six inches high, set in 
leaden strips. Many of these cottages have vines 
running over their sides and projecting gable-ends, 
and pretty little gardens. On the outskirts of the 
village there are a few large and pleasant-looking 
houses belonging to the "gentle-folk." One of 
these is the rectory ; and not far away is the 
church, a very old one, which gives us an idea of 
what village churches were a few centuries ago. 

On the pews there are some very curious old 
carvings, and on a large screen there are twelve 
panels, nine of which are now occupied by pict- 
ures ; each of these represents a man clad in furs 

and velvet, and although they were painted so 
long ago that nobody knows exactly who they were 
intended to represent, there can be but little doubt 
that they were meant for the twelve apostles, all 
the panels originally having been filled. 

Near the village schoolhouse stands the dwell- 
ing of the school-master, which is so very pretty, 
so very small, and so very neat, and has so prim 
and tidy a little flower garden in front of it, that 
if baby houses for grown people came packed in 
boxes, we might imagine that this had been freshly 
taken out of one. As we look upon this little vil- 
lage, — and it will take us but a short time to see 
the whole of it, — the first impression that it will 
make upon most of us will be, that although all 
this is, in reality, new to us, we have been very 
familiar with it in books and pictures. 

As we walk along the broad highway which 
leads from the village, we meet a man who may 
perhaps surprise us. This is a letter-carrier, 
with his bag, briskly walking away into the open 
country. The nearest post-office is at Prince's 
Risborough, some miles away ; but here he is, 
delivering letters at the farmhouses and country 
seats in the neighborhood, and when he goes 
back he will collect them from the little box set 
up against a garden wall in the village. This is 
very different from what we see in our country, 
where it is only in cities that letters are delivered, 
and in quite large towns persons who want their 
letters must go to the post-office for them. But 
in England letters are delivered everywhere, and 
even in the quietest country place people can 
have the pleasure of hearing the postman's knock 
at the door. Some of these carriers must take 
very long walks; but English people do not appear 
to object to that sort of thing. Two young girls, 
the daughters of our hostess, will, at any time, 
step over to Prince's Risborough and back, a dis- 
tance of more than five miles, and think nothing 
of it. 

But we shall want to see so much in this beau- 
tiful county of Bucks, that we shall not be content 
with walking; and the next morning we will set 
out for a good long drive, some of us in a " fly," 
and some in little pony carriages, which last we 
can hire for about three shillings a day, if we drive 
ourselves and give the horse some beans for a 
midday meal. The day is clear and bright, and 
we see that even in this well-sprinkled isle it is 
possible to have blue sky and sunny air. The 
country we pass through is gently rolling, with 
here and there hills of considerable height. Many 
of the fields are covered with rich, luxuriant grass, 
and those which are cultivated look very small 
compared with American grain and corn fields; 
but these little plots are so carefully tilled that the 




product from one of them is often quite as great 
as that from one of our very much larger fields. 
But, on the other hand, we see good-sized fields 
here planted with things which with us are gener- 
ally grown in gardens, such as beans, which are 
largely used for horse and cattle feed. Speaking 
of corn, we find that in England this name is given 

of dainty-flowering and sweet-smelling rows of 
hedges is very delightful. It is true that the tall 
hedges cut off some of our view, but the haw- 
thorn bushes, with here and there a pretty clump 
of green trees, are enough to look at for a time. 
After a while we come out upon the brow of a hill 
and on a wider road where the hedges have been 


to wheat, rye, barley, and other kinds of grain. 
In America the maize which our forefathers found 
was called Indian corn to distinguish it from 
the other grains ; and when its cultivation became 
very general, we called it simply corn, and ceased 
to apply that name to any other kind of grain. 
We do not see this crop in England, although 
it has been introduced into some parts of the 

Many of the roads we drive over are just wide 
enough for two vehicles to pass each other, and 
are almost always bordered on each side by lux- 
uriant hedges, often ten or twelve feet high. These 
are composed largely of hawthorn bushes ; and as 
it is now the early part of June, these bushes are 
covered with lovely white, and sometimes light 
pink blossoms. Driving between these long lines 

clipped ; and here, stretching around us, are miles 
and miles of lovely English scenery. What we 
principally see are green fields divided by hedge- 
rows, and masses of trees and shrubbery all richly 
green, and of luxuriant growth. We seldom see 
rows of fences, or wide, unshaded stretches of pas- 
ture land. The country is so pretty and so pict- 
uresque that one might think it had been laid 
out and planted like a landscape garden or a park 
simply to make it look beautiful; but, of course, 
this is not the case, for the farmers of England, 
like most other farmers, prefer the useful to the 
ornamental; but centuries of careful cultivation and 
rain, added to a considerable degree of good taste 
on the part of the great proprietors, have made 
England the lovely country that it is. 

On the side of a high, long hill lies a very 

IS87. ] 



pretty little village called Whiteleaf, and above it, 
flat against the green slope of the hill, we see an 
immense white cross. It is so large that it is visi- 
ble at a distance of many miles. It looks as if it 
were about a quarter of a mile long, and it is formed 
by cutting away the green turf and exposing the 
white chalk which, in this part of the country, lies 
directly underneath the top soil. This work was 
done by an antiquarian society, to commemorate a 
great battle fought here between the Danes and 
Saxons. The society owns the land, and has 
appropriated funds to keep the cross always white, 
and clean from grass and weeds. 

Among the things which will appear novel to us 
will be the great number of little public-houses, or 
inns, which we shall see scattered about the coun- 
try, generally at the junction of two roads. These 

is the fact that wherever a road crosses a railroad 
track, it either goes over it by a bridge or under 
it by a little tunnel. There is no driving across 
the rails; and the tall sign, with "Look out for 
the locomotive " painted on it, is unnecessary 

We are not going anywhere in particular this 
morning, and merely drive wherever our fancy 
leads us. We pass cottages with thatches on 
them sometimes a foot thick; large farmhouses, 
and now and then a private residence, generally 
standing back, and well shaded by trees ; and we 
drive through two villages not far from each other, 
called Great Kimball and Little Kimball. In the 
former is a handsome old church, built of small 
stones very oddly arranged, which is interesting 
to us, not only on account of its appearance, but 


have signs with their names, such as "The Three 
Crowns," " The White Hart," "The Swan," "The 
Plough and Harrow," for instance, and a picture 
of these objects painted thereon. English people 
drink a great deal of beer and ale, and no matter 
how secluded and quiet the spot may be where we 
find one of these inns, we shall generally see a wagon 
or a two-wheeled spring-cart standing outside, 
while the owner is refreshing himself within. 

Another thing which makes country driving here 
different from what it is at home, and not only 
different, but very much more safe and pleasant, 

because in the churchyard around it began the 
great English revolution of the seventeenth cent- 
ury. Here Cromwell, Ireton, and Hampden met 
and arranged their plans and projects. 

Not far away is Hampden Park, a large estate 
which once belonged to John Hampden, but is 
now the property of the Earl of Buckinghamshire. 
There is a road through this park which is free to 
the public, and you may be sure we shall drive 
through it. The park is very extensive, and we 
are immediately struck by the magnificent appear- 
ance of the trees. Some of the great beeches are 




as round and symmetrical as if they had been 
trimmed, and the foliage everywhere is very thick 
and heavy. Although the park, in portions, is so 
thickly wooded that it seems like a little forest, the 
trees are well cared for, and each one is allowed 
to have plenty of room to expand itself in a natu- 
ral and symmetrical way. At a distance we catch 
a view of the house, and not far away from it we 
see a curious-looking tree called a copper-beech, 
the leaves of which are of the color of a bright 
English penny. These trees are comparatively 
rare, and only a few of them are to be found in 
the country. In an open sunny space, we notice, 
not far from the road, standing among the thick 
grass, two handsome birds as large as our ordinary 
poultry. They are pheasants, and do not appear 
to be in the least disturbed at seeing us. They 
probably know that no one will be allowed to harm 
them except in the game season, which will not 
arrive for several months. The laws regarding 
game are very strict in England, and even in the 
shooting season no one who does not "preserve" 
game, as the rearing and care of it is here called, 
is allowed to kill a rabbit, a partridge, or a pheas- 
ant, even on his own property. All such game is 
considered to belong to those persons in the neigh- 
borhood who have " preserves." If a rabbit should 
come into the garden of the house where we are 
staying, and be found eating the cabbages, it may 
be driven away, but if the owner of the garden 
should catch or kill it, he would be subject to a 

It must not be supposed that the great proprie- 
tors are always stingy about their game. On one 
of the estates of the Prince of Wales each poor 
man is allowed to come to the house every day in 
the shooting season, and get one rabbit. He is 
perfectly welcome to the animal, now it is dead, 
for the Prince and his friends could not possibly 
eat all they shoot ; but if he should presume to 
deprive the owner of the pleasure of killing it, he 
would be a poacher and be put in prison. 

As we drive on Ave see, to the left, a beautiful 
open glade, the sides of which are perfectly paral- 
lel, running for about a mile through the thick 
woods. When Queen Elizabeth once made a visit 
here, and was about to return to London, this 
opening was cut through the park as a road by 
which Her Majesty might reach the highway in 
the most direct manner, and so have a shorter 
journey to London. This royal road was only 
used on this occasion, and the wide avenue is now 
covered with rich grass and is called Queen Eliza- 
beth's Glade. 

After driving a mile or two among the grand 
old trees of the park, we come out upon a public 
road and soon reach Hampden Common, which is 

a wide, open space, covered with short grass and, 
in places, with heavy growths of gorse, which is a 
short, prickly bush just beginning to show large 
masses of yellow flowers. On the edge of the open 
space we see some cottages, and, although all the 
land here is the property of the Earl, the poor 
people living in these have a right, which has been 
possessed for generations, to the use of this com- 
mon for grazing and other purposes. Wandering 
about on the short grass, we may see a great many 
flocks of ducks, most of them young, downy, and 
as yellow as canary birds. The raising of ducks is 
a great industry among the poor people in this 
part of the country, which is not far from Aylesbury, 
the home of a very famous breed of ducks. A 
number of beautiful black sheep, with black heads 
and legs, are grazing not far from us ; and as this is 
one of the English commons about which we have 
so often read, we naturally look for a gypsy en- 
campment. This we do not see, although it is 
quite probable that if we were to come some other 
day we might find one. 

We return home by the way of Prince's Risbor- 
ough, which is quite a little town, consisting mainly 
of a long street of old-fashioned, two-story houses 
with queer gables and brass knockers ; a funny 
little market-house in an open space to one side ; 
and rather more houses of entertainment for man 
and beast than there seem to be men and beasts to 

On another day we shall take a drive of about 
eight miles to Hughenden, which was the residence 
of the late Benjamin Disraeli, afterward Lord Bea- 
consfield. Our way takes us through a variety of 
pretty shaded lanes, with now and then an open road ; 
and sometimes we pass a perfectly green lane, en- 
tirely covered with short, thick turf, along which 
it must be very pleasant to wander on foot. When 
we reach Hughenden Park we first visit the church, 
at the back of which is the tomb of the famous 
novelist and statesman. On the wall of the church 
is a tall tablet containing a long inscription in 
praise of the great man's wife, but not a word to 
indicate that he himself was anybody in particular. 

Other parts of the churchyard are occupied by 
old, old graves and tombstones, and in it stands a 
picturesque thatched cottage, in which the sexton 
lives. Farther on is the rectory, a remarkably 
pretty house, surrounded by fine grounds and 
shrubbery ; and we soon reach the mansion of 
Hughenden, which, although a very large house, 
is not pretentious-looking nor very handsome. We 
pass through great gates of ornamental iron-work, 
surmounted by the gilded crown and castle of the 
Disraeli coat of arms. 

The grounds immediately around the house 
are kept in very fine order; the broad gravel 

i88 7 .l 



drive is as smooth and hard as a floor, while 
the grass is cut and rolled so that there does 
not seem to be a single blade more than half an 
inch high. Instead of a portico, we see on each 
side of the entrance, door, which is but a step 
above the ground, a large space, inclosed with 
great panes of plate-glass, filled with most beauti- 
ful flowers and tropical plants which give a very 
cheerful and bright appearance to the house. 

We arc met at the door by a neat little woman 
dressed in black, who is the housekeeper and 
looks at first in a rather forbidding way ; but when 
she hears we are Americans who wish to see the 
house, she smiles very pleasantly and invites us to 
walk in. English country houses, during the ab- 
sence of their owners, are generally shown to 
respectable visitors. This house is occupied at 
present by a gentleman who will live here until 
the nephew of the late owner comes of age, but 
the house is kept in the same condition that it was 
when Lord Beaconsfield was alive. It is furnished 
with simple elegance, but there is nothing grand 
or gorgeous about it, such as we might expect to 
see in the home of the man who wrote " Lothair," 
and who made his Queen the Empress of India. 
There is a room which was furnished for Queen 
Victoria, when she made a visit here : and some 
of the girls may take an interest in a chair which 
was embroidered by the Princess Beatrice. 

When we have taken leave of the housekeeper, 
and have dropped some silver into her hand, we 
drive out through another part of the park and go 
on a few miles farther to the important town of Wy- 
combe ; and here we have an opportunity of seeing 
an English country town on market-day. Many of 
the houses are very old-fashioned, having upper 
stories projecting two or three feet over the side- 
walk, with funny little shops beneath. The main 
street is very wide, and to-day very busy ; every- 
where we see farmers who have come, some in 
spring-carts and some on horseback ; all sorts of 
people are walking among the vehicles, and a 
great part of the street is occupied by little pens, 
in which sheep or calves are confined, while cows 
are standing by the curbstone, the purchasers and 
sellers talking and shouting around them. Passing 
the live stock, we see large spaces in the street 
covered with cheap tin and wooden ware : and, 
besides these, there are displays of dry goods and 
all sorts of things which country people would 
come to town to buy. It is more like a fair than 
a market, and, although we are rather late in the 
day to see the best of it, it is a very bustling and 
interesting scene. 

It is now time for ourselves and our horses to 
have something to eat, so we go to the Red Lion 
Inn, over the door of which is a great wooden 

lion, painted red, with a long, straight tail with 
a tuft at the end like a dust-brush. This is one 
of the old-time inns, such as we read about in 
Dickens's stories. We drive under an archway 
which leads back to the stables; and on one side 
is a door opening into the handsomely furnished 
bar, behind the counter of which is a nice buxom 
Englishwoman ; and beyond this is the tap-room, 
where the farmers sit down to drink their ale and 
beer. We alight at the door to the right, which 
leads to the coffee-room, a large room with a long 
wide dining-table in the center. The furniture is 
heavy, but very comfortable, and the walls are 
hung with a variety of pictures, a series of which 
show the various accidents which used to befall the 
old stage-coaches. We sit around the table, and 
when a great joint of cold beef, the half of a cheese, 
a loaf of bread, some butter, some lettuce and 
water-cresses, and two or three pitchers of brown 
stout or ale have been placed before us, the waiter 
goes away, and leaves us to eat and drink as much 
as we please. This is the usual fashion in the Eng- 
lish inns ; a portion is not brought to each one, 
but we cut what we like from the joint, the loaf, 
and the cheese, and all are charged the same, 
whether we eat little or much. 

When we have eaten a hearty meal, and have 
looked at all the dogs, horses, coaches, and por- 
traits on the walls, we "tip" the waiter, "tip" 
the hostlers who have taken care of our horses, 
"tip" the bar-maid who brings us our change, 
and drive away home by a different road from that 
we came. 

We pass a beautiful park belonging to Lady 
Dashwood, which extends for a long distance, 
and not far from the road we see the family 
mausoleum, which is a large temple-like building 
on the top of a hill. It seems rather queer to meet 
a common cart with Lady Dashwood's name on 
it, but all vehicles used for draught on public roads 
in England must have painted upon them the 
name of the owner, and we may sometimes see an 
earl's name upon a hay-wagon or a cart loaded 
with gravel. Some of the famous and wealthy 
family of Rothschild live in this county, and 
whenever we pass one of their farm gates we see 
the initials of the owner painted upon it. In our 
country it is very seldom that we can find out in 
this way the owners of the estates we see. 

Very often, when we pass a cottage by the road- 
side, we notice, through the open door, a woman 
with a little pillow on her lap making lace. A 
great deal of lace of a pretty but not very expen- 
sive kind is made by the poor women in this part 
of the country, but they do not get much money 
by it. Near some of these cottages we meet three 
or four little girls, coarsely but neatly dressed, who 

6 5 6 



(u^r lower 

i88 7 .] 



of Queen Anne cottages. There are plenty of 
cottages of this style around the suburbs of our 
large cities; but those we see here were built in 
Queen Anne's time, and I doubt if the village has 
changed very much since the days of that good 
lady. If we happen to want any postage-stamps, 
or some pens and paper, it will be well for us to 
go into a little shop, which is also the post-office, 
and see what a queer place an English country 
shop ma)' be, with its low ceiling, its woodwork 
darkened by time, its little windows, and the neat 
old woman with white cap and apron who waits 
on us. 

When we have driven and walked as much as 
we please through this beautiful county of Bucks, 
we shall have a good idea of English country life 
where the influence of railroads and cities is little 
felt. But we could go into other country places, 
and find scenes and people very different from 
those among which we have been. Although 
England is so small, there is much variety in her 
landscape and country, as well as in the manners 
and customs of the people. 

We shall visit various places of interest in Eng- 
land, but I can speak of but one of them now. This 
is Warwick Castle (here pronounced Worrick), 
which once belonged to the famous Earl of War- 
wick, the "King-maker." As the family is away 
(nearly all great country families are in London 
at this season of the year), we can visit this cele- 
brated castle and get an idea of high life in the 
English country, both as it is to-day and as it was 
in the Middle Ages. 

This immense building is the finest feudal cas- 
tle now remaining in England. It stands upon 
a high rocky bluff, overlooking the River Avon; 
and when we have walked up through the grounds, 
we see before us the huge battlements and towers 
of a real baronial castle. On one side of the en- 
trance is Caesar's Tower, which dates back to the 
Norman Conquest; on the other side is Guy's 
Tower, a fortress one hundred and eighty feet 
high, with walls ten feet thick. Between these is 
the arched gateway, with an ancient portcullis 
armed with spikes, which, by the orders of the 
present earl, who likes to keep up everything in the 
olden fashion, is let down and bolted every night. 
The inner court is a wide, grassy square, sur- 
rounded by the towers and buildings of the castle. 

We first enter the great hall, which is large 
and lofty enough for a church. All around the 
walls we see spears, battle-axes, and other weapons 
belonging to the ancient earls, some of them once 
used by the great Guy of Warwick, who lived in 
the tenth century, and who is said to have been 
nearly eight feet high. In this hall is an immense 
iron pot, which is called Guy's punch-bowl. From 

VOL. XIV.— 47. 

this room we look, for a distance of three hundred 
feet, through a line of splendid apartments. These 
rooms, called the red drawing-room, the gilt draw- 
ing-room, and so on, are furnished in the most 
costly and magnificent manner, many of the tables 
and other furniture being lavishly inlaid with silver 
and valuable stones. 

Farther on we come to the State bedroom, which 
was once used by Queen Anne, and among the 
other interesting things in the room we see the 
Queen's trunk, which, although a very large and 
fine one for those days, is as different in weight 
and strength from our trunks as one of our houses 
is from one of her fortresses. All these rooms 
contain valuable paintings by old and modern 
artists, besides works of art in bronze and marble; 
and when we reach the corner room, and look out 
of the window, we find we are almost level with 
the top of a great cedar of Lebanon which is grow- 
ing on the river bank beneath us. The boys 
will want to stop in the armory, which is a long 
passage, crowded on each side with weapons of 
many kinds, battle-axes, swords, spears, daggers, 
old-fashioned flint-lock guns, bows and arrows, 
and some arms of a more modern date. After 
passing through some other fine rooms, we go out 
again into the courts, where a great peacock is 
walking about on the grass, looking as proud as if 
he were one of the armed knights who with squires 
and pages were so often seen there in days gone by. 

The town of Warwick is very interesting in itself, 
and when we enter it from the west it is by a gate 
which leads us directly through an old church tower. 

A most interesting place is the old Leicester 
Hospital, which was founded by that Robert Dud- 
ley whom Queen Elizabeth made Earl of Leicester, 
and who will be well remembered by every one 
who has read Scott's novel, " Kenilworth." It 
was one of his few good deeds. This hospital 
supports twelve old soldiers and their wives. It is 
a beautifully picturesque group of old half-timber 
buildings in excellent preservation, and is now 
very much what it was in the sixteenth century. 
In the kitchen, which is the common sitting-room, 
hangs a piece of embroidery worked by Amy 

English country life in grand castles, and in 
the mansions of the aristocracy and the upper 
classes, is very different from what we have 
seen. It is, in fact, more stately, more luxurious, 
and more costly than life in town. The great 
houses are filled with visitors during the country 
season, and hospitality is generally extended on a 
magnificent scale, with the finest cooks, fashion- 
able hours for meals, and all sorts of entertain- 
ments. The life we have been leading is simply 
that of well-to-do people in rural England. 

6 5 8 




J nave taken many jtripS to destinations near and far ; 
J kave bailed in every'; kind of ship that "p|lie.S tke restless main; 

^^OjJ'f have done to town \on horseback and then ridden home adam 
-»iF" P| But of all the many vehicles upon tke land and 5ea , ' 
|/"^5\^X y\ train of chains tkat runs between tke dinind-room and hall 
-^— — ^^s^V^ '-?\ you midht not like it much , is certainly to me 
•|, JJeyond a doubt" , the pleasantest conveyance of them all . 
'lr\nd the train - conductor <oes around to dather up tke fare£ • I 
J : >"■' ,,, ."While the dinci done and dell 

S Of ihe bid dinner bell _^P ^ =?"' ^=. 

In a mighty racket mingles With tke crashing of the chairi . 



By George I. Putnam. 

Chapter VI. 


The corps of cadets having again returned to 
barracks and established itself for the year, the 
days go by, one very like another, yet very differ- 
ent from those in camp. Let us see how one of 
these days is spent. 

At six o'clock in the morning the corps is aroused 
from sleep by the discharge of a cannon, and im- 
mediately the shrill music of fife and drum is heard 
across the plain, coming nearer and nearer, until 
finally the drum-corps reaches the area of bar- 
racks ; then its members scatter to the halls of the 
different divisions, and with additional clatter im- 
press upon the heavy sleepers that they must arise 
and dress. 

Again assembling, the drummers sound the 
last notes of reveille; and as the music ceases, 
the lines of the companies are formed and the 
rolls called by the first sergeants. The soldierly 
virtue of promptitude is evidently not possessed 
by all, for some unlucky individuals come rushing 
down the steps and dash into ranks just a moment 
too late ; and to-morrow at parade they will hear 
their names published in connection with the re- 
port, "Late at reveille." 

Immediately after the roll is finished, police-call 
is sounded, and now the rooms are put in order 
for the day. The cadet in each room who is 
"orderly" for that week sweeps the floor, dusts, 
sees that the washbowl is inverted, and performs 
all the duties connected with making the room tidy. 

At fifteen minutes past six, surgeon's call is 
beaten. Those on the "sick report" repair to the 
hospital, where they describe their condition to the 
surgeon, and are "pilled or painted" as the case 
may require ; for quinine pills and iodine are 
sovereign remedies for nearly all cadet ailments. 

At twenty minutes past six the two senior cadet 
officers in each division inspect the rooms in their 
charge; and this inspection brings grief to some 
unwary cadets, for one has forgotten to invert his 
washbowl, another has no coat on, the table of a 
third is in disorder, and still a fourth has not piled 
his bedding properly. All these little delinquencies 
must be reported, and each of course will bring 
its penalty. 

The first call for breakfast sounds at twenty-five 
minutes after six; five minutes later the "assem- 

bly" hastens the footsteps of the laggards, the 
companies are again formed, the rolls called, and 
the battalion, under command of the senior cadet 
captain, marches to breakfast. Twenty minutes 
is allowed for this meal, and the battalion then 
marches back. The ceremony of guard-mounting 
takes place at seven, and those detailed for guard- 
duty must attend. For the others the hour from 
seven to eight is "release from quarters"; and 
during that time they can walk, read, or occupy 
themselves as they please. 

At eight o'clock the notes of the bugle call one- 
half the corps to recitations. The sections are 
formed in the area, and marched to their re- 
spective recitation-rooms in the Academic Build- 
ing, where every section marcher reports to his 
instructor, "All are present, sir," or "Cadets Jones 
and Williamson are absent, sir," as he had pre- 
viously reported to the officer of the day. The 
members of each section then take seats, while the 
instructor, after indicating the lesson of the next 
day, gives out the subjects for immediate reci- 
tation. Looking over his book of marks, the 
instructor of the first section in second-year math- 
ematics says, "Mister Arden." Fred steps quickly 
to the center of the room, faces the instructor, and 
receives the statement of the proposition he is to 
discuss. Then, facing about, he goes to the black- 
board on the right, writes his name in the right 
upper corner, and then puts down such work as 
may be necessary for the demonstration. 

Meanwhile others of the section are given sub- 
jects to discuss at the other boards, and others are 
called up and questioned on the lesson of this and 
the preceding day. As each one at the black- 
boards becomes ready to recite, he takes the 
"pointer" in his hand, and, facing the instructor, 
stands in the position of a soldier until he is called 
upon to recite. He then states what he is required 
to do, and proceeds with the demonstration to the 
best of his ability. His recitation finished, the 
instructor says, "That will do, sir!" and marks 
him on his recitation. The mark awarded a per- 
fect recitation is three, and from this the marks 
are graded, by tenths, to zero. So when a cadet 
gets a three, he remarks that he "maxed it," or 
that he "zagged regardless"; a "two-five" (2.5) 
indicates a good recitation, and two stands for a 
poor one, while anything below two shows that 
the cadet "fessed frigid." 

At half-past nine the bugle again sounds, and 




the sections at recitation return to their quarters, recitations again commence and last until four, 
giving place to the other half of the corps. During these two hours on alternate days, half of 

Returning to his room, Fred takes his French the third class receives instruction in drawing, 

books down and studies, or, as he would say 
'"bones," the lesson of the day; for he goes to 
that recitation at eleven. But suddenly he hears 
footsteps in the hall below, and they are stopping 
at each door. The "tac" is inspecting. Fred 
casts a hurried glance around the room, brushes 
a little dust off the mantel, places the broom so as 


more effectually to conceal the sweepings behind 
it, for he has not properly policed his room this 
morning, and, satisfied that he will not be de- 
merited for any disorder, calmly awaits the in- 
spection. Soon a single tap at the door causes 
him to spring to attention as the officer walks into 
the room and notes its appearance. He goes out 
again without a word, and Fred congratulates 
himself on "no demerit that time." He is some- 
what chagrined at parade the next morning to 
hear in the delinquency list : 

" Arden : Shoes at foot of bed not properly 
aligned, at A.M. inspection. 

"Same: Sweepings of room behind broom at 

At one o'clock, dinner is served; and at two, 

while the other half, divided into two platoons, 
practices riding at the riding-hall. It is accounted 
"great fun" to witness the first rides of the year- 
lings, so we will go down there and laugh at their 

Mounting the stairs to the gallery, we look down 
upon a large space strewn with tanbark, at one 
end of which is a row of some 
twenty horses with watering- 
bridles. Soon the performers 
file in and come to a halt in 
front of the horses. Do they 
intend to ride with only a water- 
ing-bridle, without even saddle 
or blanket ? They will try to, 
at all events. The instructor 
commands : 

" Stand to horse ! Prepare to 
mount. Mount ! " 

In obedience to his command 
the cadets spring, struggle, leap, 
and kick, in their endeavors to 
bestride their steeds. The mo- 
ment they are mounted, several 
horses develop astonishingbuck- 
ing propensities, to the anguish 
of their riders and the delight 
of the gallery. Now they start 
around the hall at a walk. It 
seems rather tame, does n't it ? 
But soon the command " trot ! " 
is given, and the fun begins. 
The poor fellows bounce about 
on the horses' backs like India- 
rubber boys, and wabble from 
side to side like jumping-jacks. 
The trot is accelerated, the 
horses take the gallop, and dash 
around the hall, tumbling their riders in heaps 
at the corners, while those who by chance are 
still mounted grasp frantically at their horses' 
manes. Finally, the gait is reduced to a walk; 
line is formed ; the dismounted yearlings, nothing 
daunted, catch their horses and remount, and then 
the performance is repeated. 

If we had visited the gymnasium and fencing- 
academy in the morning, we should have seen sec- 
tions of the fourth class exercising under a rigid 
system of instruction ; and if from there we had 
gone to the riding-hall at the hour of first-class 
attendance, we should have seen exhibited the 
high degree of muscular skill and activity to which 
the system of training in gymnasium and riding- 
hall brings cadets. For the first-class cadets ride 

i88 7 .] 


66 1 

like Indians. It is immaterial to them whether 
they have a saddle or blanket or ride bareback. 
They leap hurdles, go through the saber exercise, 
and are adepts at pistol practice ; they mount, 
dismount, vault their horses and pick up articles 
from the ground, all while at full speed ; they ride 
forward, backward, sideways, and double ; lying 
down, kneeling, and standing up. Visitors at the 
riding-hall during first-class hours go to admire, 
not to laugh. 

Returning from witnessing the third-class ride, 
we find that it is four o'clock, and recitations are 
over for the day. At this hour, except during the 
winter months, there is infantry or artillery drill 
for an hour, each day. But when, at the begin- 
ning of November, these drills are suspended, the 
time from four o'clock until parade is "release 
from quarters," and all enjoy it as best they can. 
Some start off for brisk, bracing walks. Going 





through the gymnasium, we find there numbers 
of muscular youngsters who have not had enough 
exercise through the day, and are working off their 
superabundant energy on the trapezes, rings, and 
bars. The sound of music attracts us then to the 
fencing-academy, and a glance in there shows 
quite a party of cadets dancing with one another 
to the music of violins and a double bass. Still 
other cadets will be found in the library, reading. 
Thus does the corps occupy itself during off hours. 
Between five and six in the afternoon, the beating 
of the drums causes all to assemble for parade, 
and immediately after the ceremony they march 
to supper. 

Twenty minutes after the return of the battalion 

from supper, call to quarters is sounded, and all 
cadets are supposed to hasten to the respective 
rooms and begin to prepare the lessons of the 
morrow. The members of the guard which was 
mounted in the morning are posted as sentinels in 
the halls of barracks, charged with the duty of 
preventing visiting, and of maintaining quiet and 
good order through the evening. They are taken 
off post at fifteen minutes before ten ; and at ten, 
three taps on the drum give the signal for retiring, 
when all lights must be extinguished and all cadets 
in bed. Exception is made in favor of the first 
class, who are allowed lights until eleven ; but after 
that hour, the entire corps sleeps until aroused by 
reveille the next morning. 

(To be concluded.) 

rkfre Were? thjea Loyj or Glet\claLe 
?M^V> /\oneU^a (yactxj it\at 
( g)_ \\t Wo u i I *Aa il \ a { a c i^ jj[ 

5-^fCoMe about Li^afn J^\^ 

£ vv/ttk i^e/V/giei- aiot\Q kei- Ue. tail 

i8S 7 .] 


66 3 

By Mary E. Wilkins. 

Who was Katy, who was she, 
That you prate of her so long? 

Was she just a little lassie 

Full of smiles and wiles and song? 

Slandered she some sweet dumb thing? 

Called a tulip dull and plain, 
Said the clover had no fragrance, 

And the lily had a stain ? 

Did she spill the cups o' dew 

Filled for helpless, thirsty posies ? 

Did she tie a butterfly 

Just beyond the reach o' roses ? 

Did she mock the pansies' faces, 
Or a grandpa-longlcgs flout ? 

Did she chase the frightened fireflies 
Till their pretty lamps went out ? 

Well whatever 't was, O Katy ! 

We believe no harm of you, 
And we '11 join your stanch defenders, 

Singing " Katy-did n't," too. 


(From the Russian of Alexis Koltzoff.) 

By Henry Tyrrell. 

[Alexis Vassitievich Koltzoff, the Robert Burns of Russian poetry, was the son of a cattle-dealer, and was born in Voronej, Southern 
Russia, in 1809. In summer he tended his father's cattle on the steppes, and in winter he drove them to market. He received little 
school education, but his intimacy with life on the plains appears in all his poetry. His talent attracted the attention of patrons of Rus- 
sian literature, and he was about to go to St. Petersburg to devote himself exclusively to literary pursuits when death cut short his 
career. He died in 1842, aged thirty-three years. Koltzoff's songs are among the chief gems of Russian verse.] 

Up, my horse, pull ! 
Three good acres in the field; 
To our plow it all must yield, 

Moist, dark furrows turning. 
See ! behind the forest dim 
Peeps the sun's uprising rim, 

Splendidly burning. 

On, my horse, pull ! 
I am master and servant to thee, 
Working behind thee merrily, 

Plow and harrow minding, 
Sowing still in sun and rain ; 
Then, in time of ripened grain, 

Reaping and binding. 

Up, then, my horse ! 
Hurry on the shining share, 
Cozy cradle to prepare 

For the seedlets' slumber. 

Mother Earth will nurse and rear, 

Till their tresses green appear — 

Blades without number. 

On, then, my horse ! 
Think of the tall corn, waving bold, 
Slowly turning from green to gold, 

Hung with plump ears mellow. 
We shall hear the sickle soon. 
Oh, how sweet the rest at noon, 

On the sheaves yellow ! 

Pull ! For thee, my horse, 
Good feed, water from the spring. 
While we toil, my heart shall sing: 

Grant, O Lord, full measure ! 
Let no blight of hail or rain 
Fall upon my field of grain — 

'T is all my treasure. 

66 4 



By Jessie C. Glasier. 

'■• \ct I ! Reckon we-all 's gwine to 'membah dis 
ver day long 's we lib ! " shouted Clum, 
balancing himself for an instant on his 
woolly head, then turning a handspring 
that brought him down with a bound on 
the cellar door, in the 
midst of the little group 
assembled there calmly 
watching an April sunset. 
" Yo' 're a clumsy chile ! 
Like to jounce yo' sistah 
off disdoah ! " cried 'Van- 
geline, frowning at him 
as she smoothed out her 
stiffly starched 
white apron and 
pulled three- 
year-old Silvia 
closer to her 

Clum, how- 
ever, paid no 
heed to her re- 
proof. " Jcs' 
lookatdat great 
pink an' yaller 
cloud!" he broke 
. , .. out. " Looks fer 

all de worl' like 
dat 'Tilda Smif 
when she wuz up in dat gran' charyi't wid her 
dress spread out all 'roun' her, an' dem big roses 
on her head — " 

" An' de drums a-bangin', an' de whistles tootin'," 
burst in Abe, rolling his great black eyes at the 

" Yas : an' de percession marchin'. marchin'! 
I kin see dem red coats an' blue trowsahs yit," 
went on Clum. " An' oh, de music dat ban' 
played ! " 

" An' de Queens o' Beauty an' Maids o' Honah ! 
— dey was the han'somest," put in 'Vangeline. 
" Laws, but did n' deir crowns shine ! 'Deed, I'se 
mighty glad o' 'Mancerpation Day ! Ye don' see 
sech sights no othah time, now, I tell ye." 

The boy stretched at full length on the old cel- 
lar door gathered himself up lazily at this. 

" It '11 do well 'nuff," he remarked with lofty su- 
periority ; " but a percession ain' nowha', to my 
min', 'thout thar 's some firin'. Now, I 've be'n 
turnin' the mattah ovah, an' I say, right yer, I 

cud get up somethin' a heap sight better 'n what 
you-all 's b'en goin' on so 'bout." 

Four dusky faces turned to his in astonishment. 
'Vangeline was the first to speak. 

" Wataloo Bridges! What foolishness is you 
a-talkin' ?" she demanded with great dignity. 

" Like to know whah 's yo' gwine get yo' uni- 
fo'ms ? " muttered Clum. 

" An' de ban' to play fur ye ? " piped Abe. 

Waterloo fished a bit of sassafras-root from a 
ragged pocket, and bit it in silence until the curi- 
osity of his brothers and sisters was at what he 
considered the proper pitch. 

" 'T ain' the numbah of people in a percession," 
he announced finally. " Ef I wuz to invite you 
all to 'sist me, we cud perduce a cel'brashun sech 
as wuz nevah seen inside the Distric' befo' ! Silvy, 
yer, she sh'dbe Queen." 

"Jos' 's if dey wan' some udder folks a heap mo' 
htten to be Queen ! " interrupted 'Vangeline in- 
dignantly. "Silvy ain' nothin' but a baby." 

" Silvy sh'd be Queen," repeated the Master of 
Ceremonies, with authority. " Ain' yo' got sense 
to see Abe cud p'ramberlate her 'roun' in his 
cart ? I sh'd want you ter march ter the head o' the 
percession, nex' to me. I sh'd be fust, in co'se, 
an' d'rect the firin'." 

" Firin' ! " cried all four in a breath. 

" Did n' I jes' say a percession was n' wuth no- 
ticin', 'thout they wuz guns or am'nition o' that 
natchah bein' discha'ged ? I shall procuah pow- 
dah, an' I shall — But youchild'n wud n't on'erstan', 
ef 1 sh'd 'tempt ter explain what 's in my min'," 
and Waterloo fell to biting a fresh piece of sassa- 
fras, with an air of great mystery and superior 

The little group on the cellar door gazed at their 
brother in silence. He had been to them an object 
of awe and admiration ever since he came home 
from Baltimore, two years before. What marvel- 
ous sights had he not witnessed in that great city ! 
What wonderful knowledge had he not gained since 
then, at the colored school around the corner! 
What could be more thrilling than to hear him 
read from his favorite book, a tattered United 
States History, — spelling out the long names, by 
the firelight, his eyes sparkling with enjoyment of 
the story of battle or bombardment ! Surely, from 
that book he must have gained this latest inspira- 
tion ! Already he had invented much that was 
wonderful for their amusement; but this new plan 

i88 7 .J 


66 5 

promised to surpass anything yet devised. Was 
there ever any one so clever, so worthy to be imi- 
tated, so much to be admired? 'Vangeline and 
Clum, Abe, and even round-eyed Silvy, sucking 
her fat black thumb in her sister's lap, would have 
said " No ! " unhesitatingly. 

Waterloo, meanwhile, was turning his splendid 
project over and over inside his kinky pate. 

to victory ; he would himself perform exploits far 
more heroic than anything recorded in his beloved 
history. He gloried in the martial sound of his 
name, and longed for an opportunity to exhibit his 
power to command. 

If he succeeded in carrying out this plan, now 
dilating in his brain, might he not be treading the 
first steps on the road to distinction ? 

mm-. . 


Through most of the twelve years of his life he had 
cherished one great ambition, — some day he would 
be a famous commander, a general perhaps, or 
a captain with a uniform covered with badges, to- 
kens of his valor. He would wear a sword with 
diamonds in the hilt ; he would lead great armies 

Vol. XIV. — 48. 

But now Clum's voice broke rudely on his dream 
of glory. 

" How's ye gwine to get yo' powdah, 'Loo?" 
" Ho ! That 's easy 'nuff," was the scornful an- 
swer. " Ef you child'n cud keep anything to yore- 
selfs, mebbe I might tell ye mo'," he added with 




condescension. His great idea had grown too big 
for one head to hold in comfort. 

" We '11 nebber tell, sho 'syo'bawn ! 'Deed, 'n'we 
won't ! " cried the chorus, and Waterloo proceeded. 

" Ovah to ouah school thar 's a boy dat thinks 
a heap o' me, an' he wuks 'roun some days in a 
sto' whar they sells powdah 'n' shot, 'n' so fofe. 
He kin manage to sell me some, ef I arsk him. 
Then I '11 git some jes' the right kin' o' bits o' wood 
from the rubbish ovah yer to dem new houses, an' 
I '11 take an' bo' the inside clean outen the sticks 
— foun' somethin' jus' th' othah day I kin bo' with 
easy nuif. Then I '11 cram powdah inta the 
holes, an' plug 'em tight, an' have a fuse — " 

"Wat's dat?" ventured Clum and Abe, to- 

Waterloo frowned sternly. 

" Hoiv often you-uns gwine to interrup' me? 
Nevah see sech chil'n ! What 's a fuse ? Why, 
it 's a — a — you jes' wait, 'n' you '11 see what it is. 
I'se read 'bout 'em mo' times 'n yo' kin count. I 
kin fix 'em. Lawzee ! Won' they mek a glor'us 
bangin' ! One o' them fired off w'en we 's jus' 
gwine start out, an' mo' all 'long while we 's a- 
marchin' — tell ye, it 'ill knock 'Mancerpation Day 
clean inter the shade ! " 

" An' I kin blow de mouf organ ! " cried Abe, 
his little thin face beaming with delight. " An' 
Clum an' 'Yangeline, dey kin toot de horns we 
had las' Chris'mus. Glory, glory ! Won' it be 
gorgeousome ! " 

" Reckin we bettah arsk Micky Barnes ter go 
'long ; he 's got a bran new cart, heap bigger 'n 
Abe's, — do fust rate to tote Silvy in," put in 
Clum, turning a somersault to show his apprecia- 
tion of the plan. 

But 'Vangeline promptly crushed his sugges- 

" G'way from yeah, boy ! Don' yo' know bet- 
tah 'n ter 'sociate wid Micky Barnes ? He 's got 
no mannahs ! " she cried, her small nose elevated 
to its utmost expression of scorn. 

But Clum was not to be put down. 

" 'Loo, w'at '11 de boy do dat 's gwine fotch de 
powdah ? Reckin yo' '11 hafter arsk him to jine de 

'Loo looked serious for a moment, then he de- 
clared loftily : 

" I ain' 'bliged to explain w'at fo' I want it ; an' 
I'se settled in my min' not to have any outside o' 
de fam'ly in this yer cel'brashun. I '11 get de key 
to the back cellah," he went on, lowering his voice 
cautiously, "an' sto' all the fixin's in thar. An' 
we '11 have it on some day w'en Mammy 's to the 
Williamses', washin' ! " 

" S'posin' Miss Elsie 'd fin' it out?" whispered 

"She don' go neah the coal-cellah. An' be- 
sides she an' Miss Kate, dey '11 be into the pahla, 
long o' her granma. They won' need know 
nothin' 't all 'bout it." 

" Laws-a-massy, 'Loo ! Wish 't ye cud begin 
boriri' dem sticks dis bery ebenin'. 'Pears like I 
kain't hardly wait!" sighed Abe, his mournful 
eyes dilating, and his little frame fairly quivering 
with eagerness. 

"Hurrah fer de percession!" cried the irre- 
pressible Clum, raising a shout in which all the 
rest joined. Even Silvy, usually silent and wise- 
looking as a small black owl, took her thumb from 
her mouth long enough to cry "Rah! Rah!" 
There is no knowing to what pitch the clamor 
would have risen if a little white-clad figure, all 
daintiness and grace, from the fair, curly head to 
the toe of the small slipper, had not just then 
stepped out on the porch above their heads, and, 
leaning over the railing, called in a soft, clear 
voice : 

" It seems to me you 're making a great deal 
of noise down there. Are n't you ? " 

"'Deed, Miss Elsie, we done fo'git ou'selfs 
sometimes," shouted back Clum, as the tumult in- 
stantly subsided. 

"Miss Elsie's" word was law with any of Lib- 
erty Ann's five children. They all loved her. 
Even Waterloo privately thought her wiser and 
far more beautiful than any of the queens he had 
read about in his history, or the princesses of fairy 
tales. But of all the children, Clum was " Little 
Missy's " ardent admirer and loyal slave. As for 
Elsie herself, her loving little heart never held a 
thought of resenting the half-respectful, half-con- 
descending familiarity of her dusky friends down- 
stairs. And that evening, as she went back into 
the house singing softly to herself, she only smiled 
at the late commotion in the area below. 

It never occurred to her to wish that Liberty 
Ann and her five uproarious children did not wash 
and iron, cook, eat, chatter, and squabble, in three 
of the basement rooms that ran underneath the 
whole length of the great old-fashioned house. 

When Liberty Ann was a slender, swift-footed 
young girl, instead of the fat, broad-backed mass 
of chuckling good-nature that she was now, she 
had been Elsie's grandmamma's own waiting- 
maid, and Elsie's mamma's willing nurse. Still 
later, she had watched over Elsie's own first fal- 
tering steps. Kind, faithful Liberty Ann ! What 
was more natural than for her to come back to 
them, when, after Papa's death, Elsie and Mamma 
with what little they had left to live upon, re- 
turned to the old house, bringing Grandmamma, 
now feeble and infirm ? 

Liberty Ann's strong arms, in half an hour's brisk 




rubbing, could drive the pain from Grandmamma's 
aching back and shoulders as no liniment could. 
Liberty Ann, and no one else, could starch Grand- 
mamma's caps to the exact stiffness she liked best, 
or bring Elsie's own white dresses and ruffled 
aprons to glossy perfection. And as for the 
children — how should they ever do without them 
when it came to bringing water, and laying fires, 
answering the door-bell, sweeping the wide halls, 
the porches and the pavement, polishing the brasses 
and waxing the floors ? 

Send away Liberty Ann and the children ? Do 
without them ? Elsie would have opened her soft, 
dark eyes in amazement if you had hinted at such 
a thing. So would Elsie's mamma, " Miss Kate," 
as she was still called downstairs. So would 
Grandmamma herself. 

As the fair-haired little figure in white turned 
back into the house, Abe looked after her with 
wistful eyes. 

" Ef we cud on'y have Miss Elsie fer Queen, 
now ! " he said longingly. 'Vangeline nodded. 

"Would n' she make de bery fines' kin', tho'? — 
wid her yaller curls shinin' an' one o' dem lubly 
w'ite dresses on, an' flowahs piled up all ober 
her ! 'Clar' to grashus ! I kin 'mos' seem ter see 
her ! " cried 'Vangeline, clasping her hands over 
her knees and rocking to and fro with delight. 

" But she 's a heap too b'utiful, Miss Elsie is, ter 
be mixed up 'long ob a darkey show," she added 
with a long-drawn sigh. 

" She 's too big ! " declared 'Loo. " Cud n't git 
her inter Abe's cart ; I saw at wuns she wud n' do 
fer Queen on dat 'count, else I sh'd rec'mended 
we arsk her." 

" She 's my Queen, an' al'ays gwine t' be," said 
Clum. " Ain' nobody mo' fitten' t' be Queen, I 
knows. Laws, dem eyes o' hern sparkle like a 
fiah-bug ! An' dat voice 's so sof ' ! W'en I grows 
up, I'se gwine — " 

" Wha' 's yo' all at, yo' good-fer-nuttin' young- 
stahs? March in to bed, cb'ry las' one o' yo'," 
called Liberty Ann, showing her round jolly face 
in the doorway, at that moment ; and in the chil- 
dren went, to dream of pink clouds that had yellow 
curls like Little Missy's, and of tin horns that wore 
blue uniforms and exploded with a crash, scatter- 
ing yellow roses in all directions. 


The old cellar door where these children held 
so many conferences belonged to a house that 
had been the pride of Georgetown fifty years ago. 
It was still pointed out as ''the house that once 
was grand." Square and high, with* broad piazzas 
at side and rear, and in front a spacious portico 

looking out upon the broad Potomac and the blue 
Virginia hills, this old homestead was a mansion 
of the true Southern type. Many a time in the 
old days had its lofty ceilings and polished floors 
rung with the sound of laughter and the tread of 
dancing feet. But gone were the merry-makers 
that tripped down its great oak staircase and 
thronged its wide halls in the days when the 
grandeur of Southern hospitality was a proverb. 

Gone, too, was the crowd of sable retainers — 
slaves, the old house would have called them 
— that once trooped in and out, laden with close- 
covered dishes that sent appetizing whiffs all the 
way across the yard, from the kitchen to the 
" great house." 

The soft summer twilight fell no longer on 
stately matrons and soft-eyed girls in fluttering 
muslins, grouped with their admiring cavaliers on 
the wide verandas, perhaps discussing the future 
of their beloved Georgetown. For who could have 
been blamed for prophesying at that time that this 
bustling port, with its packed warehouses and busy 
wharves, its mills and its markets, would yet surpass 
any of the provincial Atlantic cities? Already it 
had far outranked the neighboring scattered hand- 
ful of buildings and crooked web of streets that 
called itself the Nation's Capital. 

Many changes had the old mansion looked upon 
in its half century of varied experience. From its 
eastern windows it had watched Washington City 
rise, fair and stately, along the muddy wastes that 
in earlier years had been a laughing-stock. To the 
south, it had seen long files of soldiers marching 
down the street, over the bridge, on into Virginia. 
And when the cruel war was over, once a year in 
the fair April weather the old house had looked 
down on crowds of joyous black faces, beaming 
upon the sable procession that marched past with 
flags flying and bands of music pealing out their 
gayest strains in honor of the day when slavery's 
curse was lifted from the District forever. 

"Emancipation Day" meant holiday and festi- 
val each year to the colored population, far and 
wide ; but the streets through which the darkies, 
of all shades and ages, trooped in their gayest fin- 
ery on the day of their last grand parade would 
never again look as they did when the old house 
was new. To the mansion this was the strangest 
change of all. Down by the river the empty 
warehouses crumbled along the idle wharves. 
Strangers smiled to see the grass growing thick 
between the stones in some of the steep, unused 
streets ; to them the once proud and active city 
was simply "Old Georgetown" now. The very 
sunlight fell over the quaint town softly, as on the 
face of an aged man asleep. 

In front of the mansion, the street-level had long 




since been changed, and the great house, with mor- 
tar crumbling here and there from its pale brown 
sides, was left perched high on a terrace, whence 
it seemed to look down with lofty condescension 
on the block of cheap modern houses which had 
sprung up on what had been once a part of its own 
master's estate. 

But that was in the happy by-gone days. " Ole 
Marse " died years ago; and now, as we have seen, 
there was no one but " Ole Miss," and her widowed 
daughter with one fair-haired child of her own, 
for the great house to shelter in its spacious upper 
stories; and in the basement, one old negro woman 
and her five "pickaninnies," where once you might 
have counted scores. 

But upstairs, the two plainly dressed women 
lived quietly, even happily; and pretty Elsie throve 
and grew sweet-faced and thoughtful, with her 
flowers and books, the old family piano, and, occa- 
sionally, a favorite playmate, for company. 

Sometimes, on rare occasions, a bevy of merry 
boys and girls played at hide-and-seek in the halls, 
and the house was filled with the echoes of child- 
ish laughter, as in the old days. 

But these merry-makings were even less frequent, 
now that " little Missy" had reached the wise age 
of thirteen, with inches and dignity beyond her 
years. Great, therefore, was Clum's surprise and 
consternation when, on the very morning fixed 
upon for the wonderful celebration downstairs, the 
bell rung, — not once, but half a dozen times, — 
and he himself had to open the ponderous front 
door to nine little maids, each with a work-bag on 
her arm. 

Poor Clum ! How should he know that this was 
the Mission Band Sewing Society, organized only 
the week before with Elsie at its head, now meet- 
ing for the first time for a day of serious work? 

Tears stood in Clum's eyes, as he imagined what 
would happen now. Soon there would be running 
and romping all over the place. There was not a 
corner of the old house that these girls might not 
peer into, in search of fun and adventure. 

" 'Peared like dis yer mawnin' nebber would 
come," mourned Clum. "An' now, w'en we 's 
jus' gwine to start, Miss Elsie's comp'ny has ter 
come, an' knock eb'ryt'ing to Jerryco ! " 

It was ten o'clock already. Liberty Ann, who 
usually took herself off "to the Williamses' " at 
seven, had been groaning all the morning with a 
"misery" in her back, and was only just gone. 
Even Waterloo began to look dejected. After all 
his ambitious plans and hard work, only three of 
what he called ' ' bomb- sticks " lay hidden away in the 
coal-cellar. He had meant to have at least a dozen ; 
but the rusty auger had refused to bore through 
many of the cross-grained bits of pine, some of 

which had split with an angry crack at the first 

But he had powder left. Some day he would 
show them what he could do with that. In any 
case, a great commander should never let himself 
be discouraged by trifles. 

" Don' you look so mis'able peaked," he said en- 
couragingly to Abe, whose little, weazened face and 
mournful eyes showed to great disadvantage in con- 
trast with his roly-poly brothers and sisters even 
when poor Abe was in the best of spirits. 

" An' yo', 'Vangeline," went on General Water- 
loo, " deck Silvy out in the fancy fixin's you'se got 
ready, an' yo'se'f likewise. I don' po'pose ter 'low 
Miss Elsie's pahty ter int'fere with ouah 'range- 

The children brightened. Even Abe looked 
almost cheerful. 

" Mebby dem gyurls ain' reely gwine to kerry 
on sech a howdy-do. 'Pears like dey 's b'havin' 
deirselves mighty quiet up daiah," commented 

" An' mebby Miss Elsie won't tek notus like 's if 
they wan' nobuddy 'roun'," suggested Clum. Wa- 
terloo nodded. 

"That 's 'xac'ly my 'pinion. Now, Cap'n, has yo 1 
got the charyi't ready? " he asked, turning to Abe. 

Every one of the "Cap'n's" white teeth glistened. 

" Yis, Gin'rul, de charyi't shall be at de do' right 

" An' yo', Cunnel C'lumbus Bridges, is de ban' 
in marchin' ordah ? " 

"It am, for a fac'," grinned Clum. "An' de 
'freshments, dey has be'n 'tended to. 'Vangeline, 
she tuk an' kerried off a great piece o' cohn-cake 
right 'fore Mammy's eyes, dis mawnin'. An' dey 's 
col' ham, an' dat hunk o' jell'-cake Miss Elsie gimme 
yistaday — Glory! Dis mus' be de Queen o' 
Sheby, sho' ! " and Clum tumbled over backward 
in admiration as the door opened and 'Vangeline 
walked proudly in, leading Silvy by the hand. 

Such cast-off finery as could be begged or bor- 
rowed had been made to do duty on this great 
occasion. 'Vangeline was royal in a dress of pur- 
ple and yellow calico ; a cast-off sash of Elsie's was 
fastened to the back of her gown, and she wore a 
scarlet felt hat that had once belonged to a market 
man. Two bead necklaces — one blue, the other 
green — completed her truly sumptuous costume. 

Little Queen Silvy stood smiling and complacent 
in one of Elsie's outgrown white dresses, and 
pointed with delight to the gay wreath of tissue 
roses on her woolly head, and the pink and blue 
ribbons that looped up the stiff, flaring skirt. A 
thin veil hung behind her head, suspended from 
the wreath, and her face gleamed black against 
this filmy background. 

i88 7 .] 



The spirits of the little company went up with a 
bound. General Waterloo marshaled his men, 
and with a swelling heart brought out the first of 
the three "bomb-sticks." 

" Stan' outen de way ! " he commanded, as he 
touched a match to the twine fuse. In breathless 
silence the children huddled together in the door- 

" Bang ! " came the sharp report. Abe shivered 

" Clum ! " she called, putting her face out at the 
window. There was no answer. She saw nothing 
to alarm her. 

" When I get to the end of this seam, I will go 
down," she thought; but before she stood at the 
foot of the stairs, the children were out of sight. 

"Why, how queer! It smells like Fourth of 
July!" she thought, as she hurried through the 
basement. " Is that smoke? It can't be !" 


in his tracks, and Silvy began to cry ; but Waterloo 
looked about him proudly. It was a glorious success ! 

" For'a'd, march ! " he cried. Queen Silvy was 
bundled into her chariot, and with braying horns 
and joyful hurrahs the procession filed out through 
the garden and down the street. 

Meanwhile, upstairs, in the cozy sewing-room, 
Queen Elsie had opened her parliament ; that is 
to say, the society was at work. Needles were fly- 
ing briskly, and the laughter and chatter were at 
their height, when a strange, muffled sound from 
the basement caught Elsie's ear. 

But smoke it surely was, and it came from the 
coal-cellar ; that was plain. A burning bit of pine 
had been thrown into a pile of chips in one corner 
of the room. A merry blaze was eating its way 
through the rubbish. 

Quick to see and act, Elsie tore an old blanket 
from its nail in the wall. Such a fire could be 
smothered — she had often heard that. She would 
not cry out and alarm the house. There ! A final 
energetic stamp of the small slipper, and the dan- 
ger was over. 

Elsie looked around at the piles of kindling-wood 






and coal, and shuddered. Then the big red barrel 
in the corner caught her eye. That held the gas- 
olene for the summer stove ! And on top of the 
barrel, in an old tin can — she knew that strange 
stuff, like grains of coarse black sand ! 

What if she had not come down- 
stairs just then ? What if the lit- 
tle blaze in the corner had crawled 
on, growing strong and fierce? 

As the thought of what might 
have happened swept over her, 
Elsie grew dizzy and faint. She had 
just strength enough left to seize 
the can of powder and rush to the 
outer door. Trembling from head 
to foot, she sank down at the head 
of the cellar steps. 

What did it all mean ? the strange 
noise ? the powder ? Where were 
the children ? Mamma must know 
about this ! 

Elsie's brain was in a whirl. The 
fresh air revived her somewhat, 
but she was still deathly pale when 
she made her way into her moth- 
er's room. 

stern and authoritative as Liberty Ann had never 
before heard it, calling to her to come upstairs at 

" Pow'ful cur'us doin's — pow'ful cur'us ! " mut- 
tered the old woman as she climbed the stairs 

If Miss Kate could be stern, so could Liberty 
Ann, when occasion demanded. When she en- 
tered the basement again, she walked with a firm 
step. There was a gleam in her eye as she 
mounted a chair and took down a stout leather 
strap from its nail over the cupboard. With this 
in one hand and a lantern in the other, she went 
forth to administer justice. 

" W'y don' ye lick 'Loo, Mammy ? " whimpered 
Clum, shivering with dread as his mother's strong 
arm dragged him from his hiding-place behind 
the wood-pile. 

Liberty Ann held the strap suspended in mute 

" C'ristofer C'lumbus Bridges ! Does I on'er- 
stan' yo' ter arsk why don' I lick yo' bruddah 
Wataloo ? " she demanded. 

"He wuz de mos' ter blame," sobbed Clum. 
" Miss Kate said so. She made him tell whar he 
got de powdah, an' all 'bout how he fix dem 
sticks, an' she say ef de hull house hed done 
blowed up, 't wuz his blame. 'Cause, Miss Kate 

When Liberty Ann came home 
at dusk, weary with her long day's 
work, she was surprised to find the basement empty. 
No fire, no light, no supper, no 'Vangeline, no 
Waterloo were to be seen ! And down into the 
darkness and loneliness came Miss Kate's voice, 


say he wuz de oldes', an' she say he 'riger- 
nated de plan, an' she say we all did n' know no 
bettah 'n to — " 

"Did n' know no bettah?" interrupted his 

.88 7 .] 



mother, her wrath rising every moment. "No, 
in course yo' did n' ! Ain' none ob yo' got de 
sense to study up sech a t'ing fer yo'selfs ! Yore 
bruddah Wataloo am wuff two dozen o' yo' all, an' 
den yo' arsk me why don' I lick him ! An' him 
de on'y chile 1'se got to 'pend on an' be proud of 
in my ole age ! " 

Ten minutes later, Clum crawled painfully up 

the steps to the old cellar door. Abe was there, 
half asleep in the twilight, the tears not yet dry 
on his cheeks. 

" Reckin we-all 's gwine 'membah dis day, 
too ! " sniffed Clum, mournfully, rubbing his bare 
smarting ankles, while his brother gave a melan- 
choly grunt, and again closed his eyes with an air 
of injured innocence. 


By Martha Day Fenner. 

Mm mi v / 

Ah, well-a-day, my lady ! 
How goes the world with you? 
The wee, white clouds are fleecy, 
The far-off sky is blue. 
I passed the young lambs frisking, 
And wondered if they knew 
That I had eyes for no one else, 
My lady-love, but you. 





By A. T. H. 

SEVENTY-THREE years ago, when our grand- 
mothers were little girls at school, working sam- 
plers and reading how 

" David, Josias 
And young Obadias, 
All were pious," 

a very wonderful thing happened at Farmer 
Lathrop's, — Betty was left in sole charge of the 
house one Sunday morning ! Such an honor had 
never fallen to her lot before, and never, since she 
was old enough to take her father's hand and walk 
along the road to the little white meeting-house on 
the hill, had anything but a severe storm excused 
her from going. That June morning was bright 
and cloudless, and Betty was as well as a healthy 
little girl of ten could be — yet her mother had 
told her to stay at home ! 

This was the way it happened. Saturday after- 
noon, Mr. Lathrop had brought in a little lamb 
that had been badly hurt among the rocks at the 
upper end of the pasture. The little creature was 
of a valuable breed, and Mrs. Lathrop had spared 
no trouble to cure it. It was better this morning, 

but not well enough to be left alone, and so Betty 
was installed as nurse. Her duties otherwise were 
light ; for the brick oven, which was still warm 
from Saturday's fire, held the baked beans, brown 
bread and delicious Indian pudding for the Sunday 
dinner. Many were Mrs. Lathrop's directions and 
charges, however; and her parting word was an 
injunction to Betty not to forget that it was Sun- 
day because she did not go to church. 

The little girl stood in the doorway, watching 
her father and mother as they walked slowly up 
the street. Other people were in sight also, and 
Betty began to feel painfully conspicuous. Every- 
body must wonder why she staid at home, she 
thought ; so she retired to the shed and looked at 
her patient. The lamb was asleep and Betty went 
into the kitchen. But it was impossible to stay 
indoors such a morning, so she went around the 
corner of the house into the garden, where the tall 
clumps of tiger-lilies and prince's-feather would 
'screen her from view. She must not pick one stalk 
of sweet-william or London-pride without permis- 
sion, but it was pleasant to walk between the rows 

i88 7 .] 



and admire them. She went slowly along until she 
came at the same time to the end of the garden 
and the beginning of the orchard. The orchard 
was a very fascinating place. The trees were old, 



and the crooked boughs afforded many good seats 
for little people. 

I am afraid Betty forgot what day it was, for she 
went straight to her favorite tree and climbed to 
her usual perch among its branches. She looked 
leisurely around the circle of her view, — at the 
pastures where the cattle were feeding, at the 
meadows which must be mowed the next day, at 
*the garden and the house, coming last to the sight 
she liked best, the broad blue harbor. 

What did she see there that morning that almost 

Vol. XIV. — 49 




made her fall from the tree in surprise ? Far out, 
near the '"outer bar," lay three large vessels! 
Brought up among sailors, as she had been, Betty 
knew at once that she had never before seen ves- 
sels like those. Suddenly, something she had heard 
her father say about the war came into her mind, 
and she jumped down from the tree and ran at her 
best speed to the attic, where Uncle Alex's big 
spy-glass was. The good captain had given it to 
his brother when he came home from his last voy- 
age ; and, pleased with Betty's interest, he had 
taught her how to turn it on its standard and to 
adjust the slides to suit her eye. 

She hastily pulled and pushed the parts into 
place and stood on tiptoe to look. In an instant 
she seemed to be on deck among hurrying sailors 
and men in queer red coats. Along the sides of 
the vessels were black holes — no, boxes ! — no, 
cannon ! — like the one on the green by the church ! 
Betty cried aloud in her fright, "The British!" 
Reasoning that large vessels must sail faster than 
small ones, she thought she had no time to lose. She 
had heard too many stories about the war and the 
dreaded British not to know what she must do. 

In the cellar was a broad, shallow pit, in which 
her mother packed away butter at some seasons 
of the year. Two of the huge stone jars were 
empty now, and in them Betty deposited all the 
silver in the house, her grandmother's gold beads, 
her father's great leathern pocket-book, and every- 
thing else that she thought of special value. Up 
and down many times went the little feet, and it 
was only when her task was over that she remem- 
bered how long she had left the lamb alone. It 
did not seem to be any worse, however, so she 
gave it some milk and went again to the open 
kitchen door. Suddenly a slow, regular sound of 
hoofs broke the Sunday stillness, and a moment 
later a horseman came in sight. Little Betty could 
only stare at the splendid gray horse, stepping 
so slowly and proudly, and at its rider's scarlet 
coat, cocked hat, and shining sword. To her still 
greater surprise, this dazzling vision rode directly 
up the driveway to the door where she stood too 
frightened to move. Perhaps the British officer 
had a little girl of his own at home, or perhaps he 
found something amusing in Betty's round, aston- 
ished eyes and puckered mouth. Certainly he 
smiled, and said pleasantly : 

" Why are you not at church, my little girl? " 

"There ! " thought Betty, " I knew everybody 
would ask ! " But she made her queer little bob- 
bing courtesy, and answered demurely, " Please, 
sir, I had to take care of the lamb." 

" I should think somebody would have to take 
care of you, instead. Will you give me some 
water, please ? " 

Betty ran to the well and sent the great bucket 
down in a hurry. In a few moments she returned, 
holding carefully in both hands a blue mug, orna- 
mented with raised white figures, which her great- 
grandfather's father had brought from Holland. 
The officer drank the cool water with evident 
pleasure, and looked so long and so curiously at the 
cup that Betty's heart sunk. 

"Why didn't I get him a tumbler?" she thought. 
But the officer, to her relief, returned the empty 
mug, raised his cocked hat, and rode away. As 
she looked after him, thoughts came very fast into 
her active little brain. Suppose more red-coats 
should come riding by ! They all might not be so 
kind as this one, and all the men of the village 
were at church. 

"Why, I am the only person that knows the 
British have come ! " she thought suddenly. " If 
I could only get to the meeting-house first and tell 
them — I can ! It is twice as far by the road as it 
is through the fields, and his horse goes very 

In less time than it takes to tell it, Betty had 
given a quick glance at the lamb and run swiftly 
out of the back door and down across the pastures, 
without even stopping to get her hat. Old Brindle 
raised her sober head in surprise as the little fig- 
ure flew past, and Speckle, the calf, took it for a 
challenge, and performed a series of awkward 
gambols, quite unobserved, on his side of the 

Betty did not once turn her head, but ran on at 
her best speed till she came to the churchyard 
wall. She had always before walked slowly and 
reverently in this quiet place ; now she stumbled 
among the mounds, caught her foot in a black- 
berry vine, and narrowly escaped falling. At last 
she came out in front of the meeting-house. The 
long, dusty road was quite deserted ; she was in 
time, and the hardest part of her work was before 

Parson Bradlee had just said, in his deep bass 
voice, "Thirdly, my brethren," when he saw" an 
apparition at the church door which almost made 
him forget to go on. A little bare-headed girl, 
very red in the face and almost breathless, was 
creeping in ! While the minister coughed to cover 
his long pause, Betty decided what to do. Her 
father's pew was too near the pulpit for her to go 
there, and he would be so horrified to see her that 
he might not listen to what she had to tell. Two 
pews from the door sat the High Sheriff of the 
county, so called, in Betty's opinion, because he 
was over six feet tall. She stole to his side, laid 
her hand on his arm, and, before the astonished 
man could speak, poured out her story in a breath- 
less gasp : 

i88 7 .] 



"The British are here ! I saw their vessels out 
by the outer bar, and one man has just stopped at 
our house. I ran through the fields to get here 
first, but he 's coming ! " 

Mr. Parkman drew the little girl into the pew 
and stood up straight and tall in the aisle. The 
minister stopped in the middle of a word, and 
curious heads turned from the seats in front. 

" Perhaps, if we look very fierce, he '11 be afraid 
of us and take his men away," quavered Joe Snell, 
from a safe position in the extreme rear. 

" Hush ! there he comes! " said two or three 
voices, and they watched the approaching horse- 
man in silence. He rode leisurely, glancing care- 
lessly at the houses he passed, and seemed quite 
unaware of the hostile party until he was close 


9?W m&fmk 
///Hi 1 o 


" The British are here, Parson ! " said the sher- 
iff. "Their ships are in the bay, and one man at 
least is in the village. The women and children 
must stay quietly in the pews," he added in a 
louder voice, as a confused murmur arose ; "and 
the men must follow me ! " 

He led the way to the door, the other men 
pressing close at his heels. 

"I wish it were the fashion to carry guns to 
church now, as they did in the Indian times," said 
bold Dick Fraser, running down the steps in his zeal. 

upon them. The company did not present a very 
warlike or formidable appearance, huddled together 
on the church steps, and the officer seemed more 
amused than alarmed at this display of strength. 

" State your business, sir ! " said Mr. Parkman, 
stepping forward. 

" You will readily admit that this is not the day 
for business, so of course I have none," was the 
calm reply. 

"Why do you frighten quiet people in this 
way ? " asked the sheriff with growing anger. 




" I am the one to be frightened, I think ; there 
are so many of you," with a smiling glance at the 
crowded steps. 

"In any case, you wear the uniform of our 
enemies, so I am justified in keeping you a pris- 
oner until you can satisfactorily explain your pres- 
ence here." 

With these words Mr. Parkman walked forward 
to seize the bridle ; but at that moment the horse 
began to curvet and rear in a very formidable 
and mysterious fashion. The Englishman seemed 
to have nothing to do with the performance ; but 
Mr. Parkman was forced to step out of the reach 
of the flying hoofs. As soon as he did so, the 
horse wheeled and flew up the road at a speed 
which rendered pursuit on foot quite useless. The 
officer turned in his saddle as he sped down the 
hill and raised his whip with a mocking gesture 
toward the gilt cock on the church vane. 

" Look out for your fine bird ! " he cried. " It 
will lay before many days ! " 

Taking no notice of this joke, Mr. Parkman 
rallied the staring and discomfited group of men 
and sent the women home to prepare the dinners 
for which no one had much appetite now. Decid- 
ing, after a brief consultation, that the attack would 
probably be made by sea, teams were at once pre- 
pared to draw to the beach the three cannon that 
the town could boast. Betty, watching impa- 
tiently the slow-moving oxen with their heavy 
loads, was sure they would be too late ; and there 
would have been reason for such fears, had not 
the tide been in the Yankees' favor. It was " going 
out " when Betty first saw the ships, and now it 
was what Joe Snell called " dead low water." 

No large boats could get to the beach for two 
hours at least, so they had time to place and load 
the cannon, store the ammuni- tion.and 

station the men with muskets, fit before 

the ships' boats appeared in f\ ttj the dis- 
tance. The harbor had so many A JiL/jL shoals, 
flats, and bars, thai only .111 9jf :J|||, e x p e r i - 
enced man could bring in boats fLmjK of the 
size of the British cutters with- liFrw out acci- 

dent. The men in charge seemed to realize the 
perils of the situation, and the boats came for- 
ward very slowly, eagerly watched by the excited 
little group on shore. Whether the officer in com- 
mand of the attacking party thought the danger 
of landing his men singly within easy range of 
the enemy's guns would be poorly repaid by the 
capture of an unimportant village, or whether an 
expected land-force had failed to appear, was 
never explained. Whatever the reason, the boats 
advanced to within a short distance of the shore 
and then turned and retraced their way to the 
ships, without a shot from either side. 

Thinking this was probably intended to throw 
them off their guard, and that an attack would be 
made during the night, Mr. Parkman stationed a 
line of pickets to be relieved at regular intervals. 
No one in the village, excepting the little children, 
slept that night. The mothers had been busy all 
the afternoon packing away their treasures and 
preparing bandages and other things likely to be 
needed if there were a battle. 

All that summer night the men on shore 
strained eyes and ears for any news of the ene- 
my's movements. Slowly the hours passed and no 
sound broke the stillness, even the footfalls of the 
sentinels being lost on the soft sand. When the 
day broke at last, all eyes turned anxiously toward 
the outer bar. Could it possibly be true ? The blue 
waves were crested with foam under the fresh north 
wind, but not a vessel of any sort was to be seen ! 
Evidently the British had gone to seek more prom- 
ising fields, and the home guard had nothing to do 
but to return to private life again, to the relief of the 
old men and the disappointment of the younger ones. 
The oxen plodded patiently back with their burdens ; 
the cannon were placed in their old positions to be 
ingloriously silent until next Independence Day; the 
hidden treasures again saw the light, and after a day 
or two, all apprehension of an attack passed away. 

As for Betty, she is now an old lady with cap 
and spectacles, and her grandchildren are never 
tired of hearing about that eventful Sunday, when 
she discovered the ships in the bay. 

i88 7 .] 




By George Cooper. 

" May I go to Miss Lilywhite's party?" 
But Grandmamma shook her head : 
" When the birds go to rest, 

I think it is best 
For mine to go, too," she said. 

" Can't I go to Miss Lilywhite's party ? " 
Still Grandmamma shook her head : 
" Dear child, tell me how. 
You 're half asleep now ; 
Don't ask such a thing," she said. 

Then that little one's laughter grew hearty : 
" Why, Granny," she said, 
" Going to Miss Lilywhite's party 
Means going to bed ! " 

By Frances Courtenay Baylor. 

Chapter IX. 

NlTA'S wound made her feverish the night after 
the quarrel, and Juan could not sleep for thinking 
of what he had done. He arose several times and 
insisted on bathing her arm freely with cold water, 
he made her a bed of fragrant grasses piled high 
around her, he woke her more than once to ask 
anxiously how she felt. " This is the way in 
which I have kept my promise to the mother, al- 
ways to take care of Juanita ! " he thought in bitter 
self-reproach. He made himself very unhappy 
lest the wound should not heal well, and further 
trouble be in store for Nita. He could hardly wait 
for the light to come that he might run off into 
the nearest wood in search of certain leaves which 
the Comanches use for medicinal purposes. 

When Nita awoke, Juan was gone, but in about 
an hour he came running swiftly toward camp 
holding out his peace-offering, the leaves he had 
been in search of and had only found five miles 
away upon the plateau. Bruising them between 
two flat stones, he made a kind of water-poultice 
of these leaves, which he bound upon his sister's 
arm. And he insisted on repeating this expedition 
and surgical operation every day for a week. 

Juan's affectionate care made Nita so happy 
that it seemed almost worth while to be shot in 

order to be so kindly nursed ; and being accus- 
tomed to see the gravest illness and most severe 
hurts silently endured, she made no sort of lamen- 
tation or complaint. She insisted that her wound 
was nothing, and would have occupied herself very 
much as usual, had she not seen that it worried 
Juan to have her use her arm. As it was, she kept 
quiet ; and this with Juan's poultice so aided the 
beautiful process by which Nature soon repairs the 
wrongs done a healthy body, that a complete cure 
was soon effected, to her comfort and Juan's great 

Meanwhile she had to sit and look on while 
her brother busied himself in making two things 
in which they were both deeply interested, — a 
pack-saddle and saddle-bags for Amigo. With 
his usual cleverness and ingenuity, Juan in three 
days deftly fashioned the first out of a wolf-skin 
he had secured and tanned. In three more days 
he made a serviceable, if not particularly hand- 
some, pair of bags out of the doe-hide. And then 
came the necessity of trying both on the being for 
whom they were intended, and of reconciling him 
to their use. 

It was not from any stupidity or a desire to 
shirk unpleasant duties that Amigo proved to 
be a difficult subject for training as a beast of 
burden. It was only that he was a dog. When 




everything was ready, Juan whistled to him, and 
he came running out of the bushes readily enough 
and bounded up to where the children were sitting, 
Juan, with the pack-saddle in his hand, eager to 
'adjust it, Nita longing to have a share in the trans- 
action and deeply interested to see how it would 

Both children began talking to Amigo as though 
he had been a human being, and no human being 
could have looked more intelligent than he did 
as he stood there listening, wagging his tail, 
smiling in their faces while they explained the 
necessity they were under of exacting from him a 
service he had never rendered before. He stood 
perfectly still while Juan put the saddle on ; and 
both children were so delighted by his docility 
and appearance that they capered about him in 
high glee, laughing heartily to see their old friend 
in so queer and new a part, and charmed with the 
entire success of Nita's plan for securing a porter. 

However, they congratulated themselves prema- 
turely, for becoming tired of standing still and 
being admired, Amigo suddenly sat down — when 
lo, off slipped the saddle ! And thinking the chil- 
dren's little game at an end, Amigo bounded off 
up the river bank again. He was called back, and 
Juan set to work to remedy the fault. 

It was not easy for the amateur saddler to man- 
age this, and Juan spent an hour contriving a set 
of harness that would serve his purpose. 

Tie and strap as he would, the saddle usually 
slipped off when Amigo sat down, as he did fre- 
quently ; or it would be shaken off, for Amigo soon 
came to think the whole thing a nuisance, and was 
minded to get out of it if he could. 

Finally, by an ingenious system of straps, Juan 
arranged the saddle in such a way that, run and 
rub and wriggle as Amigo might, there was no 
getting it off; and then he cut some fresh thongs 
of leather and bound the saddle-bags firmly into 
place. Amigo was then much patted and praised, 
and half-coaxed, half-forced to trot down the valley 
for about half a mile and back again, with Nita 
and Juan holding him in leash. Then he was 
released and given a large piece of turkey as a 
reward for what, on the whole, was good behavior. 
This was the first lesson and it was repeated every 
day, the load which was to be carried being grad- 
ually added and the distance increased. 

For a few days either Juan or Nita always ran 
alongside and kept fast hold of a leathern strap 
fastened around Amigo's neck ; but seeing that 
the dog was beginning to understand what was 
required of him, Juan took off the strap, and, by 
a judicious system of rewards and punishments, 
eventually converted the sensible shepherd-dog 
into an excellent pack animal. 


At last a day came when the children had no 
longer an excuse for staying in the canon, and 
they began to think of moving on. They were no 
longer weary or footsore, they had as much dried 
meat as they could possibly carry, and there was 
no reason why they should not start at once. Nita 
was more willing to go after Estrella had taken 
leave of them in the manner described in the pre- 
ceding chapter, and Juan felt that he ought not to 
waste any more time ; so one night, when all the 
canon was dimly suffused with moonlight and a 
mocking-bird close by was pouring out a very 
rainbow of song over the heads of the children, it 
was decided that the journey should be continued 
on the morrow. 

" We will take advantage of these fine nights to 
travel only partly by day: and now that we have so 
much food and can carry so much water, I don't 
believe we shall suffer as we have done," said 
Juan. Then came a long pause. Juan was revolv- 
ing the journey in his mind and thinking out his 
plans. Nita had no such responsibility and had 
almost dropped asleep, when she was roused by an 
energetic shake from her brother. " Nita, Nita, I 
have been thinking. I have got such an idea ! 
When I saw those Lipans starting off, why did n't 
I think of it, and follow in their trail? But no! 
that would not have done, either. They would 
have made all the game so wild that we should 
have starved." 

" Whatever on earth are you talking about, her- 
mauo mio?"* inquired Nita, much surprised and 
confused by all these allusions. " Follow the Lip- 
ans, indeed ! You must be crazy. What do you 
mean? " 

" Mean ? Why, don't you see ? They did not go 
toward Mexico, and I saw them set their faces to- 
ward the East, and never thought why. Oh, it is 
too much, such stupidity ! " exclaimed Juan with 

"Well, what if they did? I am sure I didn't 
want to follow them, or have them follow us, either," 
said Nita with entire sincerity. 

" But don't you see? " persisted Juan. " They 
struck for the nearest point — the nearest settlement. 
That must be much nearer to us here in Texas than 
Mexico is, and if they can go there, so can we. I 
can't imagine what made me such a dolt as not to 
see it before ; I shall change our course and travel 
east. There are Mexicans in Texas, I have heard, 
and we can easily get to Mexico in some way. 
Viva, Nita ! It is a capital thought. It is all as 
clear as daylight to me now." 

The morning star was still shining brilliantly in 
the first auroral flush of coming day when Juan 
and Nita once more stood together on the plateau 
above the canon, which they left in darkness. 


i88 7 .] 



They had crossed the river and walked down three 
miles to another opening which they had previ- 
ously explored and knew would take them out on 
the prairie beyond. 

The pleasant murmuring sound of the river run- 
ning over a series of rocky ledges and finally leap- 
ing into a pool below followed them for some time, 
as did the odor of the roses which grew as luxuri- 
antly there as at their abandoned camp ; and when 
they finally reached the plateau and saw the great 
wide plain stretching away dimly before them, Nita's 
first impulse was to beg Juan to go back to the 

think we had better go on," and he marched away 
at once across the prairie, with Amigo trotting along 
at his heels. As the light grew brighter, Nita's 
heart grew lighter, and the brother and sister were 
soon walking with more spirit and talking with 
more cheerfulness than they had done since they 
first started on their homeward journey. 

"I think that the worst is over for us," said 
Juan. "With Amigo's help we can carry enough 
water and provisions to last for ten days at a time." 
In this faith the party traveled for an entire week 
without other stoppages than such as were neces- 


canon. It seemed a dreadful thing to start out into 
that dark, unknown country. But he was not one 
whit dismayed, and broke into a whistle, which he 
presently cut short to say, "A good early start 
this, Nita ! We turn southward now, and we ought 
to get a long march done and over before noon — 
What are you doing ? " 

Nita, yielding to a natural impulse, was staring 
over the side of the precipice. Juan joined her, 
and also looked down into the mysterious abyss. 

" Don't you think we — we had better go back ? " 
suggested Nita timidly. 

" No ! " replied Juan with much emphasis ; "T 

sary. In a few days the character of the scenery 
about them began to change for the better, and 
they soon entered a lovely country, richly wooded, 
looking for all the world, with its short turf and fine 
oaks, its glades and dells and its exquisite undula- 
tions, like an English park; though the similarity 
was not noticed by the little Mexicans. 

They had left the high table-lands behind, and 
had entered the delightful region adjoining. They 
noticed that the evening star no longer cast a shad- 
ow. The heat was still very great, but had lost its 
peculiar, oppressive quality, and there were no more 
bare, shelterless prairies to traverse, arid wastes, 




oppressive to the imagination, stretching away in 
desolate monotony to the very sky-line. 

Every day carried them farther into this beautiful 
country ; and although they only looked at it from 
the practical and personal standpoint of its capac- 
ity to sustain three travelers cast upon its tender 
mercies, yet even so, it was so bright and cheering 
that insensibly they were much affected by its 
charming aspect. For some time they were very 
independent and made no demands upon it, push- 
ing steadily on, with no thought of anything except 
to get over as much ground as possible. They 
were quite free from care for the present, but Juan 
was not sorry to see that the country was full of 
game of all kinds, from buffaloes to rabbits. The 
sight of it excited Amigo very much, and at first 
he was for chasing every rabbit and fowl that 
crossed his path, but he soon learned that he must 
control himself and not give way to such impulses. 
It was wonderful to see how well and faithfully he 
bore his burdens and played his part. 

On the ninth day the children came out upon a 
beautiful valley, and had hardly traversed three 
miles of it when they were rejoiced to see a river 
curving boldly into it and running away in a south- 
easterly direction. Now they could see its long 
bend sparkling in the sunshine ; at the next turn 
it would be concealed by its own wooded banks ; 
but there it was ! There were water, shade, rest — 
all manner of delightful things, and they pressed 
on toward it with the utmost eagerness. When 
they came near, Amigo's sorely tried principles 
gave way under the strain of a new and overpow- 
ering temptation. He dashed off toward the stream, 
and in another moment would have been in it, had 
not Juan rushed after him and caught him just in 

" Poor old fellow ! does he want a bath ? Well, 
wait a minute, just one minute, until I get off this 
saddle," said Juan, as he fell to untying and unbuck- 
ling a dozen or so straps. The moment he was 
free, Amigo gave a tremendous bound and rush, 
and the next instant had plunged into the water 
and was swimming downstream in a state of evi- 
dent ecstasy that amused the children immensely. 
It was not very long before they were indulging in 
the same luxury, and a luxury it was after their 
long journey. 

The shadows were now lengthening, but were far 
from bringing peace and quiet to the place. The 
children found it full of stir and motion. Turkeys 
were coming in, all gobble and yelp, to roost for the 
night ; squirrels were chattering overhead ; coveys 
of quail flew up under their very feet, making Amigo 
jump "out of his skin," as Juan said; whole flocks of 
ducks went squawking and quacking past them, 
and suddenly three successive clouds of white pig- 

eons swept over them, flying so near the ground 
that Nita was forced to dodge her head left, right, 
left again, to avoid being struck. They were prob- 
ably on their way to their roosting-places hundreds 
of miles away, and were naturally in a hurry, for at 
best they can't get much sleep. Pigeons keep 
late hours, — they come in long after dark, and 
take so long to settle down for the night, with all 
their fluttering, crowding, changes, and confusion, 
often breaking the limbs of stout trees by sheer 
weight of numbers, that it must be nearly day- 
light before they finally close their eyes. Juan 
caught sight of some deer feeding in the distance, 
but concluded to sup on turkey. Before the sun 
dropped quite out of sight behind the distant 
mountains, he had two on spits before the fire ; 
and after the dry fare of the previous week our trav- 
elers greatly relished these delicious birds. 

The night was not only fine and clear, but moon- 
lit and wonderfully brilliant. In that latitude, and 
at that altitude, moonlight means a great deal 
more than the feeble, glimmering light that gives 
such an effect of mournfulness and desolation to 
even the most prosperous landscapes in northern 
countries. This was not a tearful, unhappy moon 
in reduced circumstances, but the beautiful Queen 
of the Night, shining afar in splendid state, and 
flooding the world with a light as clear as, if incom- 
parably softer than, that of her rival the sun. The 
wind from across the river was balmy and delight- 
ful, the place was full of sweet repose, and ab- 
solutely peaceful. The children were tired, young 
things, and were soon lulled to sleep, their last feel- 
ing being one of perfect comfort and security. 

How long Juan slept he never knew. He was, by 
education at least, a Comanche, and an Indian 
never seems to sleep at all in the sense of losing 
all consciousness of what is happening around him ; 
so perhaps it is not remarkable that Juan, whose 
right ear was next the ground, suddenly opened 
his eyes, then sat up, then laid his ear down to the 
earth again, and again sat up and looked eagerly 
about him. 

He had heard a sound that he very well knew, 
and he was awaiting further developments. He 
had to wait quite a while for them to come ; 
and in the interval he gently awoke Nita and told 
her in a whisper that he had heard the sound of 
horses' feet. He then placed himself so that he 
could clap his hand over Amigo's mouth and 
smother a bark if need be. 

"Oh! Juan! it 's Indians! It is the Coman- 
ches," whispered Nita in abject fright. 

" Comanches ? Nonsense ! There is n't a Coman- 
che within a hundred miles of us," he replied. 

" Then it is the Apaches," said Nita, fastening 
upon another tribe, also the terror of the border 

.88 7 .1 


68 1 

settlements. " Oh, do let us run and hide some- 
where ! Don't stay here, Juan ! " 

" Run, indeed ! I am surprised at you, Nita. 
Never run so long as you are not seen or can hide. 
S-sh, not another word ! " With this, Juan pro- 
ceeded to practice the silence he had enjoined, 
and Nita could hear nothing but the rustling 
leaves about her. There was a long silence, and 
then Nita heard, at first 
very faintly and then 
quite distinctly, the 
sound of which Juan 
had spoken. Her heart 
beat with the utmost 
violence as it grew loud- 
er and clearer, but she 
did not disobey Juan 
and shriek or cry. She 
just edged up as close 
to her brother as she 
could and caught hold 
of his arm. 

In another moment 
the children saw some- 
thing that they never 
afterward forgot. The 
boughs at some little 
distance on the right 
parted, and a herd of 
wild horses came trot- 
ting along under the 
wide-spreading boughs 
of the fine oaks and cot- 
tonwoods of the grove. 
The leader of the band, 
a snow-white stallion, 
with long flowing mane 
and tail, came first and 
was not far from them, 
when Amigo, as Juan 
had foreseen, gave a 
bark, or rather attempt- 
ed to give one. Juan's 
hand was so promptly 
applied that only a sti- 
fled snort escaped ; but, 
slight as the noise was, 
it reached the leader ; 

instantly wheeling, he ran back a short distance, the 
herd doing the same. The children were in deep 
shadow and could see them perfectly, especially 
the leader. 

The beautiful creature stood there for several 
minutes, like a spectral horse, his flanks flecked 
with the flickering shadows of the leaves over- 
head, his head full in the moonlight, his whole atti- 
tude one of exquisite freedom and grace, his large, 

brilliant eyes making a circuit of the wood about 
him with anxious intentness. Hearing nothing 
but the night-wind, and seeing nothing to alarm 
him further, he evidently concluded that he had 
been mistaken in supposing that there was any 
danger, and with a bold toss of his mane, he 
bounded forward again with a light, swift move- 
ment, indescribably charming, and plunged into 


the river. He was followed by the whole herd, of 

Juan and Nita caught a passing glimpse of a 
fine black stallion and some mares and colts 
as they flashed by. They heard the splash of 
water, and were about to get up and go down to 
the river to get another look at the beautiful wild 
creatures that had so fascinated them, when sud- 
denly a sound as of breaking boughs reached 




them, and then a terrific scream of mingled fright 
and pain, — unlike anything they had ever known or 
imagined — a shriek, human in its agony and 
despairing in its tone, rent the quiet night. 

Nita fell back against the nearest tree in almost 
mortal terror, and Juan sprang to his feet, whis- 
tled for Amigo, and dashed off in the direction of 
the river. Afraid to be left alone, Nita rushed 
after him with all her speed. 

While they had been quietly sleeping, a leopard, 
or jaguar, had been in hiding in a dwarf-oak not 
fifty feet away, waiting for the herd of mustangs 
to come in to water ; and as the last colt passed 
below, he had sprung upon its back and driven 
his cruel claws deep into its flesh. Maddened at 
finding itself ridden by such a master, the poor 
colt galloped frantically out of the wood and up 
the bank of the river, plunged into the water, 
turned back to the bank again, reared, snorted, 
bounded into the wood and tried to rub the leop- 
ard off against the trees, rushed out on the bank 
again, shrieked again, and finally dropped down 
and rolled over in a death-agony, not five hun- 
dred yards from where the children were stand- 

The herd knew very well what had happened, 
and scattered in every direction. The mother 
of the colt and the leader of the band, on hearing 
the first shriek, both wheeled about in the river 
and ran back toward the leopard ; but as soon 
as they got scent of him, and heard his growl, 
they swerved aside and galloped after the herd 
with all their might, the leader looking more beau- 
tiful than ever, his wet white coat glittering in 
the moonlight, his long white tail held out almost 
at right angles from his body, his very mane stiff 
with fright, as he raced up the bank and disap- 
peared in the woods. 

The grace and beauty of the lovely creature held 
Juan's eyes as long as he was in sight, and it was 
with throbbing pulse and a beating heart that at 
last he turned to see what had become of the 

The children were on the edge of the wood and 
were concealed from view, but could plainly see all 
that was happening on the bank — too plainly, Nita 
thought, as with chattering teeth and dilated eyes 
she followed the movements of the actors in the 

Some dark, moving objects were still to be seen 
in the silvery stream spread out before them, — 
the horses that had taken that way of escape, — 
but all their attention was now claimed by the 
leopard, which, having killed the colt, was drag- 
ging it off, quite unconscious of being observed — 
luckily for the observers. 

Like his African relative, he was a large, pow- 
erful, beautiful beast, with a yellow hide that 
glowed golden in that mellow light, and was dot- 
ted with jet-black spots. 

With majestic evil grace, he carried the colt a 
short distance, walked all around it as if to 
regard it from every point of view, and then care- 
fully covered it over with leaves, and walked 
slowly away toward his den, which was on the 
other side of the river in a rocky cliff. 

If the children had watched this performance 
with the utmost intentness, so had Amigo. He 
bristled up and would have growled and barked 
more than once but for Juan's vigorous measures. 

For some time after the leopard had vanished, 
Juan kept still and laid his finger on his lips, fearing 
that their dangerous neighbor might come back 
again to look after his prey. But at last Juan left 
the shelter of the tree that had screened them, 
and began to talk freely to Nita of what they had 
seen. Great was her astonishment to find that he 
had positively enjoyed a scene that had terrified 
her half to death. He was full of satisfaction at 
having seen a leopard for the first time. 

"They are very scarce, you know, and are 
getting scarcer every year, Casteel says. Was n't 
he a beauty ! How I should like to tackle him if 
I were a man ! And that white horse ! Oh, 
if I could only catch it and tame it! What 
a war-horse it would make ! " he said ; and when 
Nita had confided in turn all that she had feared 
and suffered, she begged him to leave that dread- 
ful place without a moment's loss of time. 

"It is rather a dangerous neighborhood, and 
we 'd better get away from it," he agreed. 

But Juan first uncovered the colt and cut a 
great bunch of hair from its tail. Feeling uneasy 
about the leopard, they only waited after this to get 
their packs and saddle Amigo, and they started 
off down the river; nor did they stop until they had 
put a good ten miles between themselves and a 
terrible enemv. 

(To be continued.) 

i88 7 .] 


68 3 

By Lilian Dynevor Rice. 






WAS a wide-awake little boy 
Who rose at the break of day ; 

were the minutes he took to dress, 
Then he was off and away. 

were his leaps when he cleared the stairs, 
Although they were steep and high ; 

was the number which caused his haste, 
Because it was Fourth of July ! 

were his pennies which went to buy 
A package of crackers red ; 





were the matches which touched them off, 
And then — he was back in bed. 

big plasters he had to wear 
To cure his fractures sore ; 

were the visits the doctor made 
Before he was whole once more. 

were the dolorous days he spent 
In sorrow and pain ; but then, 

are the seconds he '11 stop to think 
Before he does it again. 

By Alexander Black. 

On the irregular bluff which 
rises opposite Blackwell's Island 
and overlooks the East River is 
the house of a busy New York 
physician. In an upper window 
may often be seen a glistening 
mahogany box, to which is at- 
tached some simple but delicate 
mechanism. This box is a cam- 
era, and its wooden eyelid has 
but to wink within the hun- 
dredth part of a second to imprison upon the hid- 
den glass plate, a perfect picture of the river with 
all its activity and bustle at that moment. In 
his consulting-room below stairs, the doctor is 
able to see what is happening upon the river, and 
when he hears the bellowing of a Sound steamer, 
and sees it pushing its pompous white nose 
through the river, he will (unless, perhaps, he has 
stolen its portrait before) touch an electric knob 
near his inkstand, — the wooden eyelid winks, and 
the picture is taken ! When the doctor has time, 
he goes up and takes out the plate. 

Every neighborhood in town and in country now 

has its enthusiastic amateur photographer, whose 
friends look patiently at his prints, and smile a 
little at his zeal. Every amateur photographer is 
enthusiastic, because photography is really a very 
fascinating as well as a very useful pastime. It 
is a very companionable pursuit. The camera 
becomes an object of affection, to be cherished as a 
stanch friend. And it makes friends with all sorts 
of folk. I could tell you of a boy of twelve who 
has made some capital pictures, and without an 
expensive outfit, just as I could tell you of many 
sage elderly men who find the art a source of quiet 

The best thing you can do if you wish to take 
up photography is to make the acquaintance of 
one of these amateurs. You will find him will- 
ing to tell you all about it. Indeed, he will very 
likely overpower you at first with recipes and 
advice. And you will scarcely find two people 
who will tell you the same thing. It will be best 
at starting to follow implicitly the directions of 
some one successful amateur, and then, when you 
have mastered the first principles of the processes, 
to experiment for yourself. Professional photog- 




raphers are often ready to be very kind to those 
who make a pleasure of the pursuit, and a great 
deal is to be learned in a short visit to a regular 
gallery. The difficulty in this case is that the 
professional not only works on a much larger 
scale and with materials very different from those 
which it is possible for the amateur to employ, but 
he deals, for the most part, with a different class of 
subjects. An amateur will be more apt to know 
the particular kind of mistakes the beginner is 
likely to make, and will anticipate them in giving 
hints at the outset. 

With such purpose I set down here a few sug- 
gestions for those ambitious boys and girls who 
think of taking up photography. 

I. — Apparatus. 

The kind of apparatus required is the first 
thing the would-be photographer wishes to know. 
There is an old saying about the poorest workman 
being readiest to quarrel with his tools. If you 
are careless, you can not make good pictures with 
the best camera in the world. If you are prudent 
and sincere, you can make admirable pictures with 
the cheapest of lenses and a common box. Pa- 
tience will go farther than any chemicals yet dis- 
covered ; so that it is advisable, unless you have 
no occasion to consider prices, to get an unpreten- 
tious outfit at the start. I have seen some superb 
little views made with a nine-dollar camera. Very 
good work has been done with cameras costing 
even less. But the lens is the most important 
part of the camera, and very cheap lenses are apt 
to twist the lines of rectangular objects in a very 
annoying way. Whatever you pay for the box 
part of the camera, be sure that it is strong, light- 
tight, and easily adjustable. When you come to 
set up a camera out-of-doors on a cold day, you 
will be very thankful for every little mechanical 
convenience by means of which the exposure can 
be made in a hurry, — before your fingers get so 
cold that you can not unscrew the tripod when 
you wish to pack up. Very handsome boxes can 
now be had for eight, ten, or twelve dollars. It is 
not a very good idea to pay more for a box than 
for a lens. The required capacity of a lens is 
regulated by the size of the box, or, rather by the 
size of the plates to be used. There are a dozen 
good reasons for using a 3X X 4X i ncn camera — 
that is, a box for 3XX4X inch plates — in pref- 
erence to one of larger size. Expense and porta- 
bility are two important considerations. The 
plates for a ^X x 4-H camera now cost about forty- 
five cents a dozen; whereas, for a 4X5 inch cam- 
era they cost about twenty cents a dozen more. 

Some of the most charming bits of scenery, of 
street life, and of portraiture I have ever seen have 
been made on 3^X4^ i ncn plates. At least the 
amateur should be content at the start with a 4X5 
inch camera, with which pictures are made that fit 
very nicely in an ordinary portrait album. 

I am speaking now of a beginner's materials. 
After a time, if the young photographer masters 
all the mechanical difficulties and finds the pur- 
suit congenial, he may wish to use larger plates, 
and may then try a 5x8 inch box, or compromise 
upon a very useful size — the /±%X6% inch box. 
A "kit" is a slender frame by means of which a 
small plate can be used in a large plate-holder, 
thus economizing in material where the full-sized 
plate is not needed. Each lens has a certain 
" cutting " power ; that is, it will produce an accu- 
rate image up to a certain size. The scope of the 
lens is thus a very important element of its value, 
and must be learned and carefully considered by 
the buyer. 

Of varieties of camera there is no end. One of 
the most remarkable inventions of recent years is 
the "Detective" camera, of which the first was 
made by Mr. William Schmid, of Brooklyn, N. Y. 
This camera has no "legs," but is carried under 


the arm, and the pressing of a knob makes an 
instantaneous exposure. With one of these, views 
may be made from the rigging of a ship in motion, 
from the window of a railroad train, or under any 
similar conditions. They are intended for use 
out-of-doors only, though they may be operated 
indoors without the use of the instantaneous at- 
tachment. They cost from forty-five to eighty- 
five dollars. 

Several varieties of the "Detective " are now sold, 
each having its own name and peculiarities. In 
each case the inventor has labored to secure two 
elements — secrecy and portability. An ingenious 
invention recently made is a small camera to be 
secreted in a false vest, in which a false button 

i88 7 .; 


68 5 

forms the opening to the lens. But most inven- 
tions of this latter sort, while they can be turned to 
practical use in some directions, are mere toys ; 
and the beginner is advised to confine his first 
operations to a tripod camera. 

The discovery that negatives could be made 
upon paper as well as upon glass has made it 
possible to take two dozen or more pictures with- 
out the changing of plate-holders, to do away with 
much heavy baggage, and in other ways greatly to 
simplify out-of-door work. These paper negatives 
have not yet been made to do all that glass nega- 
tives will do, but it is probable their manufacture 
will be rendered perfect before long. 

II. — Taking Pictures Indoors and Out. 

It is easier to make pictures out-of-doors than in 
the house, because there is more light out-of-doors, 
and it is more evenly distributed. With each lens 
comes a series of thin metal plates, pierced by 
holes of various sizes. One of these stops, or dia- 
phragms as they are called, is slipped through a 
slot in the barrel of the lens ; the size of the aper- 
ture to be used depending upon the amount of 
light and the amount of exposure. Thus, if 
there is bright sunlight, and you are going to use 
the cap, — that is, open and shut the opening with 
the hand, — you can use a very small diaphragm. 
If you use a " shutter," an appliance for making 
rapid exposures, the diaphragm will have to be 
a great deal larger, according to the power of the 
lens ; and if the light is not very strong, it may 
be best to leave out the diaphragm altogether. 
The smaller the diaphragm, the " sharper" the 
negative will be. After you have had a little ex- 
perience, you will be able to judge of the amount 
of "light in the box" by looking on the ground 
glass, and to regulate the size of the stop and the 
time of exposure accordingly. In the case of mov- 
ing objects, a rapid exposure becomes absolutely 
necessary, and will be the first consideration. 
If the exposure has not been sufficiently rapid, the 
moving object or the part of the object which 
moved most rapidly (the feet and legs in a trotting 
horse, for instance) will be blurred. The greater 
the distance of the object from the camera, the 
better are the chances of catching the movement 
accurately. Thus an express train moving at the 
rate of a mile a minute may easily be photographed 
at one hundred yards, while at six feet a man 
walking is a very difficult subject. There is bet- 
ter light in summer than in winter, more in the 
open country than in the streets of a town, and 
more on the sea than anywhere else. It is never 
advisable to photograph against the sun, that is, 

with sunlight falling on the face of the camera. 
Certainly, never allow the sunlight to strike the 
lens itself, as such an accident will surely "fog" 
the plate. It is better to have the light come 
from behind the operator. In every case keep the 
focusing-cloth over the box while putting in and 
taking out the slides. 

Indoors, the problem of exposure is not only 
more perplexing, but the object to be photo- 
graphed has to be specially lighted, — the dark, or 
shadow, side has to be lighted up by reflectors, else 
all the shadows will be hard and black. If you 
can find any place in the house where a skylight 
sends down light from above (as in a professional 
gallery), instead of letting it in from the side, like 
a window, that is the place for you to make por- 
traits or groups. If you have no place but a win- 
dow, cover up the lower part with a thick shawl, 
and place the chair for the sitter two or three feet 
away. This will 
give an effect 
somewhat ap- 

proaching that of 
a top light. Then 
light up the shadow 
side by placing a 
high-backed chair, 
a screen, or a 
clothes-horse, with 
a bed-sheet or 
something of that 
sort over it, on the 
side of the sitter 
away from the win- 
dow. It is well to 
place the reflecting 
arrangement at a 
slight angle, so 
that the reflection 
will, in some de- 
gree, be thrown 
upward. There is, 
of course, no rea- 
son in the world 
why the ingenious amateur should not build him- 
self a comfortable reflector by stretching some 
white muslin on a wooden frame, and adjusting 
this to two uprights so that its angle may be 
readily changed. As the amateur very rarely 
employs a "head-rest" for the sitter, he should 
be careful to see that the patient is seated snugly 
against the chair-back. The exposure indoors 
must be ten, twenty, sometimes fifty times longer 
than out-of-doors. That is to say, where one 
might make a picture in the twentieth part of a 
second in the open air, it would be necessary 
to expose the plate for a full second indoors, 


A. Covering of lower part of window ; 

B B. Angle of light; C C. Angle 

of reflector. 




and this would be a very short exposure for the 
house. With a medium-sized stop in a fairly 
lighted room, it is not easy, even with rapid plates, 
to get along with less than four seconds' expos- 
ure ; and the probability is that you may have to 
give seven. In taking children, the exposure has 
to be so short that it is generally necessary to work 
with the open lens, without stop. It is usually 
necessary, too, in the case of little people, to have 
the head rest against something, whether the some- 
thing be a visible chair-back or some unseen object. 
Hang behind the sitter some curtain, shawl, or 
sheet, being careful not to allow creases or wrin- 
kles to show too plainly. This will give relief to 
the portrait, and keep out of the picture objects 
which might mar it. In the case of inanimate 
objects, fine effects may be secured with a 
very small stop and long exposure. If you are 
photographing an interior, and can take your 
time, use a very small stop and expose the plate 
for fifteen minutes, half an hour, half a day if 
necessary. If a light window comes within range 
of the lens, you will have an opportunity to dis- 
play your tact, since the negative will be ruined 
unless something be done to diminish the glare 
of light. You may be able to blanket up the 
intrusive window, excluding every particle of light, 
and then get illumination from an adjoining win- 
dow, or through doorways from other lighted 
apartments. If you have patience, you will then 

range. If the light is too strong in any one part 
of the room, the corresponding part of the nega- 
tive will be "cooked" perhaps before the other 
parts are half done, and the result will be unsatis- 
factory. The easiest way to photograph an inte- 
rior is, of course, to photograph from the side at 
which the light enters, or across the angle of light. 
After the general interior has had sufficient expos- 
ure, it is sometimes feasible to remove the cover- 
ings from the windows (after carefully replacing 
the cap on the instrument), and to then give the 
whole one more second's exposure, according to 
the strength of the light at the windows. In such 
a case the light should be so arranged that strong 
streams of light and lines of shadow do not pro- 
duce an unpleasant effect on the floor or elsewhere. 
Remember while you are at it that photographing 
interiors is the most difficult feature of photog- 

III. — To Photograph a City Drawing-room. 

The diagram below shows several methods 
of photographing an ordinary city drawing-room. 
In making a picture from the points A or B, none 
of the four windows (l, 2, 3, 4) will require to be 
covered. If the camera is placed either at C or at 
E, one window must be covered so as to exclude 
all light, while the other three do the illuminating. 
The shades of the windows not covered may be 

P T 








take a small wall-mirror, and, keeping it in mo- 
tion, cast its reflection into the dim parts of the 
room during the period of exposure. In the 
mean time, you may have sheets hung so that 
they will reflect light while themselves not within 

raised or lowered so as to make the shadows agree- 
able. After a long exposure with the window 
covered, put on the cap, remove the coverings, 
and expose again for one or two seconds or less, 
according to the light coming in and the size of 



the stop in use. Operating from the point D, two 
windows must be sealed in the same way. Some 
black or deep red material is best for so covering 
the windows, as the space they occupy on the 
plate will then be kept blank until the time comes 
for allowing the plate to receive an impression of 
them. If the opening 5 be a door, it can be used 
as a means of letting in light which may be reflect- 
ed through the doorways by the aid of white mate- 
rial hung at an angle of forty-five degrees. These 
general principles may be applied to the photo- 
graphing of any sort of an apartment. 

IV. — How to Take Your own Portrait. 

The illustration on this page shows one method 
of photographing yourself. The camera must be 
firmly planted, and the box solidly screwed to the 
tripod, that there may be no jar. By passing the 
string through the handle of a flat-iron or some 
other weight on the floor or ground immedi- 
ately under the camera, the chances of jarring are 
largely overcome. If you wish to take the entire 
figure, or to take a group, of which you form a 
part, pass the string around the leg of the chair on 
which you sit, or around some other solid object 
behind or beside you, thence through the handle 
of second flat-iron (see dotted line) not within 
range of the lens, to the iron under the camera. 
The object is, of course, not to have the string 
photographed. The separate sketch of the " shut- 
ter " will indicate how one of these may be made. 
This is a " time " shutter; that is, it is for making 
exposures when there is not light enough to use 
the " drop," or instantaneous, shutter. The mov- 
able center-piece should fit snugly between the 
outer and inner pieces, and yet should work easily. 
At the top is a light spring, yet sufficient to bring 
the shutter gently back as the string is loosened. 

V. — Developing the Plate. 

Now comes the tug of war. All that you have 
done so far will go for nothing if you are not cool 
and careful in the operation of developing. A 
perfectly dark room is wanted to begin with. At 
night it will only be necessary to draw the blinds 
of the room to make it sufficiently dark. But in the 
daytime every chink that might let in the faintest 
ray of light must be covered. Blankets and shawls 
will be very much in demand. A large closet 
with no windows is sometimes useful. If the 
young photographer is camping out, a dark nook 
near a stream will answer, unless the moon is 
high and full. The first of the dark-room prop- 
erties is a ruby glass lantern. The red " non- 

actinic " light emitted by a lantern of this kind 
does not affect the plates during the time re- 
quired for development. At the same time, let 
me advise beginning the development with the 
lamp-flame turned low, especially if the plates 
are " extra rapid." Then there must be a de- 
veloping-tray and a tray for "fixing." The 
developing solution turns black the parts of the 
plate touched by the rays of light; the "fixer" 
then clears off the superficial white coating and 
makes the whole permanent. Recipes for devel- 
opment, like patent-medicine cures for rheuma- 
tism, are amazingly numerous. There are two 
varieties of developer in common use. One is 
called the "iron" developer, because it contains, 
among other things, protosulphate of iron (pho- 
tography is quite an education in chemistry) ; the 
other is called the " pyro " developer, because it 
contains pyrogallic acid. "Condensed" develop- 
ers in bottles are sold, and are a good substitute 
for the developer prepared by the photographer 
himself. An amateur can not do better at the 


outset than use this ready-made solution. I have 
used both Cooper's and Carbutt's prepared de- 
velopers and have found both excellent. As for- 
mulas are easily obtainable wherever materials are 
to be bought, and as directions always accompany 
each package of plates, I shall not encumber this 
sketch with details. I shall only advise having 
the developer a little weak, when you are un- 
certain as to the exposure, and giving plenty of 
time, in preference to hurrying matters. If you 
can watch an experienced photographer, amateur 
or professional, develop a plate, before going 
about it yourself, the experience will be invaluable 
to you. Use plenty of cool water in washing the 
plate, being careful to let it flow over the surface 
gently. If you can not secure a room with run- 
ning water, have a bucketful on one side of you 
and a waste-dish on the other. In the case of the 
woods at night, a stream will answer for both 
bucket and dipper. For fixing small plates, one 
ounce of crystal hyposulphite (not -sulphate) of 





soda, dissolved in about eight ounces of water, is 
to be used. Half an ounce of alum dissolved in 
the same amount of water is sometimes used to 
immerse the plate in after developing and before 
fixing, to harden the film ; but I have found it just 
as expedient to put the alum in with the " hypo " 
(without extra water). In summer the alum is 
especially necessary, as the film is then exceed- 
ingly tender when wet. The fixing preparation 
may be kept for some time. The developing has 
generally gone far enough when you can see the 
outlines of the image from the back of the plate ; 
the fixing is finished when all the white has disap- 
peared, that is, when the cream-like substance can 
not be seen from the back of the plate. 

To render negatives permanent and easy to 
handle, it is advisable to varnish them. This may 
be done by first warming the glass, and then pour- 
ing on the varnish until it has flooded the face 
of the plate. All that will then drip off may be 
returned to the bottle. Practice this process on 
some spoiled plates first, as the negative may be 
ruined by a blunder. 

VI. — Printing. 

When the negative is dry, you are ready to 
print. For this process you must have the assist- 

ance of the sun. " Ferro-prussiate" paper requires 
no special preparation, and after printing, only 
needs to be washed. Pictures made on this paper 
are called "blue prints," and are permanently val- 


i88 7 .; 




method I have suggested is the easiest and prob- 
ably the best. 

Do not hesitate to trim down the prints. Very 
often a figure, group, or other subject is greatly 
improved by the cutting away of superfluous and 
uninteresting parts of the picture. The trimming 
should be done before the toning. Touch the 
surface of the paper as seldom and as gently as 

VII. — Suggestions. 

The best suggestion I could offer as to the selec- 
tion or arrangement of subjects would be to study 
the illustrations in The Century, in St. NICHOLAS, 
in Art Exhibition catalogues, or in any well-illus- 
trated book or magazine. Pictures in black and 
white alone give the best ideas of composition, 
because they must rely for their effect upon com- 
position, light and shade. One is liable to be 
deceived by color in considering the effectiveness 
of a scene. Objects or scenes, the beauty of which 
lies mainly in their color, are not so good material 
for the photographer as objects or scenes having 
an interest or a picturesqueness independent of 

uable. For the regular grayish or silver prints, 
silvered paper is necessary. The difficulties and 
uncertainties attending the silvering of the paper 
make it advisable for the amateur either to get 
" ready-sensitized" paper, or to procure a silvered 
sheet from a photographer. I recommend the 
latter course, since ready-sensitized paper is some- 
what uncertain when it comes to "toning." A 
single sheet, silvered and "fumed" ready for use 
(cutting into sixteen 4x5 inch pieces), should not 
cost more than twenty-five cents. 

The "toning" of the silver prints is a simple 
though delicate process, for which formulas are 
easily procured. Remember that if the negative 
is weak, if the plate lacks densely black as well as 
transparent parts, the print can not be made so 
deep in color as could one from a strong negative 
— a negative which you could leave in the sun for 
a longer time. It is particularly necessary in the 
case of the toning and the fixing which again occur 
here, that you should first have watched an expe- 
rienced hand do the same work. Leave the prints 
all night in changing water. If you have the 
opportunity, " mount" them in the morning while 
they are wet. In case you can not mount them 
then, they must be thoroughly wet again before 
they can be mounted. The paste (made from 
starch) should be like stiff jelly, the water on the 
paper supplying moisture sufficient to loosen it up. 
There are ways of mounting prints dry, but the 

Vol. XIV.— 50. 


the color. But do not fall into the habit of being 
too prim about making selections. Almost any- 
thing that is photographed well is interesting to 
the beginner and to other amateurs. There is one 





important fact to be remembered, however, in try- 
ing to make good portraits at close quarters : The 
professional photographer uses for portraits a spe- 
cial portrait lens, but the amateur generally does 
this work with a lens made for taking views. These 
view lenses " condense " very much ; that is, they 
exaggerate the perspective by taking in so wide a 
field. As a result, if great care is not taken, a 
hand or a foot that is nearer the camera than the 
rest of the body is magnified in a very uncomfort- 
able way. 

Imagine the young photographer seating his 
boy friend before the instrument. He has heard 
some one say that the most natural position 
is the best, so he permits his sitter to face the 
camera, lean back in the chair, and cross his knees. 
The result will be very funny, since the near foot 
will loom up in most awful proportions, while the 
head, being some three feet further away, will 
occupy a comparatively insignificant position in 
the background. 

Sometimes in taking a simple profile, if the head 
is placed too near the camera, the visible ear of 
the sitter, not having a chance to get so far off as 
the nose, — which has, let us say, two and a half 
inches of an advantage, — is given an alarming 
size. Then, in a full-face view, the poor nose has 
the worst of it. On this account, a "three-quar- 
ter" view is the best for an amateur working with 
a view camera ; though if a fair distance is allowed 
between the sitter and the lens, there need be no 
difficulty of either sort. 

Be scrupulously clean and exact in every process. 
I might emphasize exactness in development and 
cleanliness in toning. In toning, keep one dish 
for fixing only, one for the gold-bath, and one for 

washing or for holding the prints 
between the other processes. 

Do not hesitate to make exper- 
iments. Many of the advances in 
photography have resulted from 
the seeming blunders of amateurs. 
To those who, at college or at 
home, are engaged in scientific 
studies, the camera will afford a 
means of interesting experiment. 
The camera has been one of the 
greatest teachers of this century. 
It has, for instance, taught Meis- 
sonier, the great French painter, 
that the horses in his " 1807" are 
not galloping as horses actually 
do gallop. It has taught the sci- 
entist who photographed a flying 
bullet that the reason the best of 
marksmen can not hit a suspended 
egg-shell is that a cushion of com- 
pressed air precedes the bullet and pushes the shell 
out of the way. And in a thousand other ways 


it has been confirming or upsetting scientific and 
artistic theories. Let the amateur therefore pursue 

iS8 7 .] 



his investigations freely in this field of experiment, 
and see what discoveries he may make therein. 

Keep a record of the date, subject, light, brand 
of plate, and time of exposure in the case of each 
negative. These entries may be made in a memo- 
randum-book, or on the envelopes in which the 
negatives are filed away, and will be of great value 
not only in determining what to do on similar 

occasions, but in recalling the period and circum- 
stances under which the picture was taken. 

There are five hundred or more hints I should 
like to give you, if there were space for them, but 
I am not sure that the time occupied in reading 
them might not be more profitably spent in a 
struggle with the difficulties at which they would 
be aimed. 

here vza.s j\n obliging "young' 
"Who wished to deliver the,; 
fy And he said that though slow 
Tie "was sure he could go 
c^jnce a. week to each house without tail 





By James Otis. 

Chapter IX. 


IT was a sorrowful-looking and but partially 
dressed group that the firemen saw standing in 
front of the burning building when they came up at 
full speed, the engines pantingand puffing as if eager 
to measure strength with the fiery tongues of flame 
that were already creeping through the windows 
and doors. Some of the neighbors had given the 
alarm, neither the directors nor the boarders hav- 
ing had sufficient presence of mind to do so ; and 
in a few moments after the inmates of the board- 
ing-house had been driven out of it, half a dozen 
streams of water were being poured into it by as 
many engines. 

It was too late then to save any more of the 
household goods, since even the firemen did not 
dare attempt to enter the building until the fury 
of the flames had been subdued somewhat ; and 
Jenny stood weeping over a small heap of frag- 
ments, which was all that remained of her board- 
ing-house. It is probable that Mrs. Parsons felt 
quite as sad as any one, but she was far too prac- 
tical to remain very long out-of-doors on a cold 
night mourning over her losses. Besides, it was 
necessary to find a better shelter for November 
than one very thin bed-spread afforded, and so 
the old lady began looking about for a place of 
refuge before the fascination of the flames had 
ceased to hold the others spell-bound. 

Some of the neighbors generously offered shelter 
to those who had been driven from their home ; 
but Mrs. Parsons and November were the only 
ones who accepted the invitation until the fire 
was nearly extinguished, and Jenny's boarding- 
house had been transformed into a blackened, 
smoking, shapeless mass of ruins. 

Poor Jenny bewailed rather the destruction of the 
house where she had hoped to earn a livelihood 
for her mother and herself than the absolute value 
of what had been destroyed. Ikey mourned the 
loss of his overcoat, which could be so conveniently 
laced up behind ; and Tom stood with a rueful 
countenance as he realized that he owned nothing 
whatever save the shirt he had on when the flames 
prevented him from re-entering his bedroom. Pin- 
ney was sad in a general way ; he had saved nearly 
half of his limited stock of clothing, but he grieved 
because of Jenny's sorrow and that he was homeless. 

Duddy and Jack were sad because of the wreck- 
ing of what, in their opinion at least, had prom- 
ised to be the best-managed boarding-house in the 
city ; and Sam was the only one who could see 
anything cheering in the conflagration. Since the 
house had been burned, of course the question of 
forcing Master Tousey to resign from the board of 
directors could no longer be brought up, and his 
loss was far less than that of any other member of 
the company. His principal regret was that he 
had not been wise enough to sell his share to 
Duddy when the subject was under discussion, and 
thus have received back his precious dollar and 
eighty cents. 

One grief the boarders and the directors had in 
common, and that was occasioned by the loss of 
November's skates. Very strangely no one had 
thought of those valuable articles in the brief time 
before the flames forced them to leave the build- 
ing ; but after it was too late there was not a 
boy among them who did not feel that the baby's 
loss was great indeed. It is true that November 
could not use the skates, but every one of his ad- 
mirers felt certain he would soon have "grown up 
to 'em " ; and the first thought of all was to replace 
them at the earliest opportunity. 

When the fire was under control Pinney went 
to where Jenny was standing sorrowfully by the 
fragments of a bureau, and, touching her lightly on 
the shoulder, said softly : 

"I 'd try not to feel very badly about it if I 
could, Jenny. When you come to think of it, the 
house was n't such a very nice one, after all, an' 
you know we fellers '11 whoop 'round lively till we 
can start another." 

" I do try, but I can't help feeling badly, Pin- 
ney," replied the young landlady. "I thought 
so much of the place, 'cause I believed I could earn 
money, an' Mother would n't have to go out work- 
ing ; but now it 's gone, and we 're worse off than 
we were before it was started." 

Poor little Jenny burst into tears again, and 
Pinney could show his sympathy in no other way 
than by smoothing her shawl with his hand, until 
Tom and Duddy came up to insist that she should 
go into the house where her mother had sought 

As a matter of fact, it was quite time for all the 
homeless ones to screen themselves from the pierc- 
ing cold, and the boys gratefully accepted an invi- 
tation to spend the remainder of the night in the 

l88 7 .) 



kitchen of the same house wherein Jenny and her 
mother and November had been provided with a 
room and a bed. 

At first it seemed impossible for the boys to sleep, 
so excited were they all; but their eyes were closed 
in slumber before morning, and the German 
woman who had given them shelter found them 
stretched out on the floor in front of the stove, 
blissfully unconscious of their loss, as she went 
to prepare breakfast for her unfortunate guests. 

When the question of going to work was brought 
up, the unpleasant fact that neither Tom, Ikey, 

with which to provide Tom, Ikey, and Pinney with 
outfits; "the rest of us will go down town, an' 
I '11 ask all the fellers if they Ve any clothes to 
spare. I 'm most certain Tim Dyer has two coats; 
he '11 give us one of them, an' p'rhaps we '11 get 
enough to rig you all out." 

This was clearly the only thing that could be 
done, since no one thought for a moment of ask- 
ing Jenny for the money that had been given her 
the night before. To purchase new clothing, 
even if they had sufficient funds, was an extrava- 
gance of which none of the boys would have been 


nor Pinney had sufficient clothing in which to make 
a comfortable appearance on the street presented 
itself, and for some moments the greatest conster- 
nation prevailed. Before they went to sleep, it 
had been decided that the original stockholders 
(with the exception of Sam, who was replaced by 
Duddy) should do their best to provide Jenny with 
funds to start another boarding-house ; but if three 
of the party were to be prevented from working 
because of lack of clothing, the prospect of raising 
funds was a dismal one. 

"I '11 tell you how we 'II fix it," said Duddy, 
after it had been definitely settled that there was 
not among the entire party sufficient garments 

guilty, and the three destitute lads gladly agreed 
to remain where they were until their friends could 
solicit contributions in their behalf. 

It was not until the boys had started out, some 
to go to their regular work, and Duddy, with two 
or three others, to forage for clothing, that Mrs. 
Parsons and Jenny made their appearance. Neither 
they nor November had suffered from the exposure 
of the night previous ; and even before breakfast 
had been eaten, Jenny and the three ex-direc- 
tors were planning how they might start another 
establishment on the plan of the one that had been 

" If I can get an overcoat, an' Tom an' Pinney 

6 9 4 



can scare up some clothes, we '11 work so hard that 
the money '11 come rollin' right in. Then you can 
look for another house, an' in two or three weeks 
we won't even know we were burned out." Ikey 
spoke very hopefully ; but the bright look faded 
from his face as he asked, " Where will you an' 
November an' your mother stay till we can rake 
up the cash ? " 

" We must hire a little room somewhere," said 
Jenny, trying hard to smile, "and — and — I 'm 
goin' to sell papers, too." 

"You sell papers!" repeated Tom, while Ikey 
and Pinney stared at her as if positive their ears 
had deceived them. 

" 1 Ye got to do somethin', of course, or how 
could we pay the rent of even the smallest room ? " 

"But you must n't sell papers, an' that settles 
it," said Tom very decidedly. 

"It 's the only thing to do that I know of — I 
mean, it 's the only chance that would make me 
sure of earning money enough each day to buy 
bread for mother and the baby." 

"It can't be done!" Tom shook his head, 
while Ikey and Pinney did the same by way of 
showing that they agreed with him. " We 
would n't stand that anyhow, — would we, fellers?" 

" Of course not ! " said Ikey scornfully, as if the 
very idea was absurd, while Pinney repeated the 
words after him emphatically. 

" I don't know jest what we can do," continued 
Tom ; " but we '11 talk it over when Duddy comes 
back, an' you see if we don't hit on somethin'." 

" Wait till Duddy comes back ! " said Ikey and 
Pinney in concert as if the affair had been finally 

But Jenny continued, "I thought it all over 
this morning, and Mother said I might do it; for 
you see we must have money, an' even if I could 
get a place as cash-girl in a store, I could n't have 
any wages until after I had been there a week. 
Now we must have enough to pay for a room right 
away " 

" Well, you 've got what we gave you last 
night," said Tom quickly. 

" Yes ; but I would n't use that till I knew how 
I could pay you back." 

" See here, Jenny," and Tom spoke impressively, 
purposely raising his voice so that Mrs. Parsons, 
who was talking with her hostess at the other end 
of the room, should hear him, "we fellers won't 
have you out on the street sellin' papers in this 
cold weather. Duddy is one of the firm now, an' 
he '11 kick about it, an' so will every last one of us ! " 

" We all own a share in the baby," added Pin- 
ney, "an' we don't want you to leave him while — 
say, fellers, do you s'pose Sam will think he owns 
any of November now ? " 

"Of course not!" exclaimed Tom; "Duddy 
took that part, too, when he took Sam's place." 
Then Tom went into an elaborate explanation of 
how and by whom November was owned; and before 
Jenny found an opportunity of again introducing 
the subject of selling papers, Duddy and Jack 

That they had been successful in their mission 
could be seen by the load of antique garments 
which each carried. 

"It seemed 's if every feller had somethin' he 
was achin' to get rid of," Duddy said, as he depos- 
ited his burden on the floor and looked around 
with an air of triumph. " They did n't know any- 
thing about the fire till we got down town, an' I 
tell you they stacked things up in great shape when 
they heard how much we 'd lost. Some of the 
fellers is talkin' 'bout raisin' fifty cents apiece an' 
lending it to Jenny so 's she can start over ag'in." 

No one paid very much attention to the latter 
portion of Duddy's story, for they all were eagerly 
examining the assortment that had been so gener- 
ously given by boys to whom even the most ragged 
pair of trousers was valuable. There was suffi- 
cient clothing to provide an outfit for half a 
dozen, and it was not many moments before Tom, 
Ikey, and Pinney were ready to begin work once 
more. It is true they did not make a very fashion- 
able appearance ; but they were well protected 
against the inclemency of the weather, and that 
was sufficient. 

" Comin' down town?" asked Duddy, after he 
had turned each of his friends slowly around in 
order that he might admire the general style and 
misfit of the newly acquired garments. 

"Yes; we 've got to work harder 'n ever now; 
but before we go there 's one thing to be settled." 
Then Tom repeated what Jenny had said about 
selling papers. 

Duddy looked at the young landlady in mingled 
astonishment and reproof for several seconds ; then 
he asked her gravely : 

" Be I one of this firm now or not? " 

"The boys say you have taken Sam's place," 
replied Jenny meekly. 

"Then you can't go out sellin' papers 'less we 
let you, an' it '11 be a mighty long day before I 'm 
willin'. Jest wait till night, an' if I don't show you 
somethin' fine, I '11 be s'prised. But there 's no 
use talkin' 'bout your sellin' papers." 

" But Mother an' I must find some place to live 
in, and I have got to earn the money to pay for it," 
explained Jenny. 

" Hire this woman to keep you here till ter- 
morrer," said Duddy. 

" But where will you boys sleep ?" Jenny asked. 

" Down at the Ncwsbovs Lodgin' House if we 



can't crawl in somewhere for nothin'," said Duddy. 
" Don't you fret 'bout us, 'cause we '11 be all right. 
Now we 're goin' to work, an' you be sure to stay 
in the house to-day, 'cause we might wanter see 
you very partic'lar, an' we must know where to 
find you." 

Duddy beckoned the others to follow him as 
he left the room, and the homeless boys were soon 
on their way down town. 

Jenny was greatly puzzled to know just what to 
do. She laid the matter before her mother, and 
the old lady decided that it could certainly do no 
harm to remain where they were for one day, as 
Duddy had already proposed. An arrangement 
was made with their good-natured hostess for board 
with her, and Jenny reluctantly consented to re- 
main idle twenty-four hours. But her brain was as 
active as ever, and by evening she had decided to 
carry out her plan in spite of the boys, when Pin- 
ney, his eyes opened to their widest extent and ex- 
citement showing on every feature of his counte- 
nance, unceremoniously burst into the room. 

" Say, Jenny ! " he cried in his shrillest tone, 
" there 's a lot of the fellers out on the sidewalk 
a-sayin' they want to see you. May I let 'em in ? " 

" Pinney White," said the old lady severely, as 
she peered over the top of her spectacles at the 
breathless boy, " you are up to some of your non- 
sensical shines again, and don't you dare to deny 

" 'Deed I 'm not," replied Master White. " This 
is somethin' very 'portant, and Duddy says as 
how they must come up in style." 

" But we can 't have a crowd of boys traipsing 
in here," said Mrs. Parsons decidedly. " It was 
bad enough when we were in our own house, and 
I 'm. sure it would never do here where we 're 
hardly more than visitors ourselves." 

" But they 've got to come ! " cried Pinney, look- 
ing really distressed. 

Mrs. Parsons was about to make some reply, 
when the old German woman put an end to the dis- 
cussion, by insisting that the delegation should be 
allowed to enter, and Pinney rushed out of the 
house in high glee. 

A moment later the heavy tramp of footsteps on 
the stairs told that the visitors were coming in a 
swarm, and even the complaisant hostess began to 
look doubtful. 

Pinney acted. as master of ceremonies, opening 
the door and standing on the threshold as if to 
welcome the guests ; while the remainder of the 
directors marched in arm in arm, followed by 
seventeen boys, each with a broad grin on his 

The visitors remained in the room several mo- 
ments without showing any disposition to make 

known the reason of their coming, until Pinney 
reminded them of business by saying loudly: 

" Jenny, these fellers have come to see you for 
somethin' very 'portant, an' if you '11 keep still now, 
they '11 tell you." 

Jim Chick, thus recalled to the duties of the 
position for which he had been selected by his 
friends, stepped forward in an easy, if not graceful, 
manner, and said, as he handed Jenny a small but 
heavy package wrapped in an old newspaper : 

" When the fellers heard about the house bein' 
burned by the fire, they felt pretty bad, 'cause you 
see a good many was reckonin' on comin' to board 
with you." 

" It 's very kind of them," Jenny managed to 
say, as Jim paused for an instant, evidently waiting 
for a reply. 

" That 's so ; but you see they thought it 
would n't do you very much good if they did n't do 
anything but feel bad, so seventeen of us raised 
sixty cents apiece — I don't jest know how much 
that makes; but it 's all in the paper — an' we 're 
goin' to lend it to you till you get another place 

"But I can't take this money, when I don't 
know how I can pay you ; for — for — " Jenny was 
wholly at a loss to know what to say. The gener- 
osity of the boys, many of whom she had never 
seen before, affected her deeply. 

"There won't be any trouble 'bout payin' us 
back," Jim said carelessly ; " for we 're all comin' 
to board in the house when you get another place, 
an' then we can eat it out. See ? " 

" Well, I declare ! " exclaimed Mrs. Parsons. 
" I never thought boys had so much sense." 

Jenny tried in vain to explain that she could not 
receive the money before she had even found a 
house. The boys would hardly listen to her. 

" Don't try to make 'em take it back, for it 
won't do the least bit o' good," Duddy whispered. 
"You can begin, the first thing in the mornin', 
to look for another place." 

Jenny finally ceased to protest against receiving 
this unasked-for loan, and during the half hour 
that the boys remained, she gave each one an op- 
portunity of at least touching November, which 
was considered by all as a great privilege. 

It is impossible to say how long the boys might 
have lingered, had not Duddy, seeing that the 
noise and general confusion was beginning to dis- 
turb Mrs. Parsons, rather broadly hinted that the 
visit should be brought to a close, by saying : 

" Come on, fellers ; it 's time we cleared out of 

Then the noisy company at last filed out of the 
room, giving a yell, when they reached the street, 
that might have done credit to Comanche Indians. 

6 9 6 



Chapter X. 


THE morning after the newsboys had proved to 
Jenny how strong were their sympathies for her, 
the stockholders were hard at work when Duddy 
was seen coming up Broadway at full speed. He 
was in the street, skillfully avoiding the horses and 
vehicles, since he could run faster there than on the 
sidewalk, which was thronged with pedestrians. 
His friends knew, from the look of excitement on 
his face, that something remarkable had occurred. 

" See Duddy run ! " screamed Pinney. " Some- 
thin' 's up, sure. I would n't wonder if he 'd had a 
lead quarter passed on him, an' he wants us to help 
punish the feller that gave it to him." 

It so chanced that all the directors were in the 
immediate vicinity, and Tom shouted while his 
friend was yet some distance away : 

" What 's the matter, Duddy? " 

" Wha-wha-what d' yer think?" asked Master 
Duddy Foss as he halted, panting and breathless, 
in front of his brother directors. " What d' yer 
think Mr. Barstow says ? " 

As a matter of course no one had any idea what 
the lawyer had said, and, without waiting for an 
answer, Duddy continued, "He says he will lend 
Jenny a whole hundred dollars to start another 
boardin'-house with, if all of us fellers promise to 
work hard an' pay him back ! " 

"What?" shouted the boys in chorus ; and had 
they been told that the Brooklyn Bridge was 
stolen and carried away, they could not have 
appeared more astonished. 

" It 's the truth," replied Duddy emphatically. 
" Come 'round the corner while I tell you all 
about it." 

So excited were the directors by this time, that 
they almost tumbled over one another as they 
rushed pell-mell to an unoccupied doorway on 
Barclay Street. 

"This is the whole story," said Master Foss, as 
soon as he could get his breath ; "an' you '11 know 
it 's true, 'cause we '11 all have to go down to his 
office with Jenny. You see, I did n't carry him 
any paper yesterday, for I had to get you boys 
clothes, an' after I 'd done that, it was so late 
that he 'd bought one. When I saw him this 
mornin', he asked me in a cross-like way why I 
was n't there the day before." 

" Did n't he know 'bout the fire ? " asked Pin- 
ney eagerly. 

" Course not. What would a swell like him 
know 'bout a fire down in Carpenter Street? I told 
him though, an' then he said as how he was sorry 
'cause he spoke so sharp. He asked me all about 
Jenny, an' how you 'd started the house, an' 

what we meant to do now. An' when I told 
him everything, he said he 'd lend Jenny money 
to get another place if we 'd all promise to pay 
him back. We must go right up and get her, 
for he '11 be in his office all the morning, an' we 
wanter make sure of the cash before he has a 
chance to back out." 

" How do you know that he 's willing to lend 
as much as a hundred dollars? " asked Ikey doubt- 
fully, so improbable did the story seem. 

"'Cause that's what he said!" cried Duddy. 
'" He asked me how much I thought it would take 
to start another house, an' I told him as much as 
ninety dollars. Then he said as how ten on top 
of that would n't be more 'n enough, so he can't 
offer any less, can he ? " 

"We '11 soon know what he 's goin' to do, if we 
go down there with Jenny," said Tom. " Let 's get 
some of the fellers to take our papers off our hands, 
an' start right after her." 

Fortunately, Jim Chick appeared in sight just at 
that moment ; and after the matter had been hastily 
explained to him, he promised to take charge of 
the directors' stock-in-trade, it being understood 
that he was only to pay for what he sold. Then 
the boys started toward Carpenter Street at full 
speed, while Jim made haste to sell his wares, and 
at the same time to spread among his business 
acquaintances the startling news that Duddy Foss 
had seen a man "what was goin' to help him open 
a reg'lar swell boardin'-house." 

When the boys arrived at the German woman's 
house, they found that Jenny had not yet gone out 
house-hunting ; and Duddy told the wonderful 
story in the briefest possible space of time. It was 
some moments before his listeners could realize 
their good fortune ; but when he had once suc- 
ceeded in convincing them, the young landlady 
was soon ready to go with the Board of Directors 
to Mr. Barstow. 

If Jenny had been willing to run through the 
streets, the boys might have been reasonably con- 
tented ; but their patience was sorely tried at 
being obliged to walk, although at a rapid gait, 
to the lawyer's office. 

They arrived at last, however ; and found Mr. 
Barstow alone and disengaged. He did not wait 
for Duddy to remind him of his promise ; but said 
at once : 

" I suppose you have come to attend to the 
business of which I spoke to Duddy. This is my 
proposition : I will loan Jenny Parsons an amount 
sufficient to open a boarding-house — say even one 
hundred dollars, for which each of you must become 
personally responsible. It is purely a business 
transaction, in which I invest my money with a 
stock company that agrees to give six per cent, in- 

i88 7 .] 



terest, while I take as security the notes of the 
directors. You must pay the interest every three 
months, and I shall demand the right to examine 
your books at any time I may think proper." 

Ikey looked up in alarm ; the expression of joy 
that had been on his face, from the moment 
Mr. Barstow began to speak, faded into one of 

'• I don't believe I could keep the 'counts if we 

you some useful hints; but you must not expect 
me to aid you except by suggestions." Turning 
to Jenny, the lawyer continued, " When you have 
found a suitable house, let the owner or agent come 
to me for the rent. I will sign the lease, and sub- 
let it to you. After that, you can buy such furni- 
ture as may be necessary, and have the bills sent 
to me. Here is your authority for purchasing the 
goods in my name." 

was to have a hundred dollars to spend," he said 
sorrowfully. " It 's been 'bout as much as I could 
do when every feller paid in ten dollars." 

"But you must do it, Ikey," said Duddy. 
" You 've kinder got the hang of it now, an' if you 
lay right down to it, you '11 come out square." 

"If you are doubtful of your ability to keep the 
books of the concern, I shall expect you to submit 
your work to me at least once each week," said 
Mr. Barstow. " You can come here every Satur- 
day at noon, and perhaps I may be able to give 

The lawyer handed Jenny one of his business 
cards, on which he had written : 

" The bearer, Jenny Parsons, is hereby authorized to purchase in 
my name such goods as may be necessary to furnish a boarding- 
house plainly but comfortably. All bills are to be submitted to me 
before the articles are delivered. F. H. Barstow." 

" Duddy shall report progress each morning," 
the lawyer added, " and I claim the right to inspect 
your work at any time. I shall loan you only such 
an amount as may be necessary for the purchase 




of furniture and fuel, and for the first month's 
rent ; but what you need for running expenses, 
Miss Jenny, you must get from the Board of 
Directors. Now you had better set about finding 
a house at once." 

Jenny would have tried to thank the lawyer for 
his wonderful generosity ; but he showed so plainly, 
by rising and opening the door, that the interview 
was at an end, that she could do no less than 
follow the directors into the street. 

The boys were inclined to be extravagant in 
their joy when they were out of Mr. Barstow's 
office ; but Jenny was unusually quiet. The loan- 
ing of the money had been treated by the lawyer 
so thoroughly as a matter of business, that she 
realized the full responsibility that rested upon her, 
and said seriously : 

" Would n't it be terrible if we could n't pay the 
money back? " 

" But we can," replied Duddy confidently. 
"When the place is started, we shall make no 
end of money, and it won't be any time at all be- 
fore we can square up with him. S'pos'n' we all go 
'round to find a house ? " 

"I think it would be better for you to go to 
work, as usual," Jenny said. "You know Mr. 
Barstow does n't loan us anything for food and 
such things ; and we shall need more money 
than we have before we can take a houseful of 

But none of the directors felt that it was neces- 
sary for them to work very hard, on that day at 
least, and were more eager to make known to their 
friends and acquaintances the good fortune that 
had come to them than to engage in any other 
occupation. Duddy painted the future boarding- 
house in such glowing colors that, had it been 
open then, it would have been filled to overflowing 
with boarders. 

Sam was the only one who did not rejoice at the 

"I tell you what it is, Ikey," he said while 
Duddy was again explaining his views on the new 
boarding-house ; " I ought to have a share in the 
concern, 'cause I lost 'most everything when the 
other one was burned. I told Duddy he might 
have my place, for he was jest about crazy to git 
it ; but I did n't mean to back out for good." 

" You said 't was no use to try to start an- 
other," replied Ikey quietly. " When Tom asked 
if you 'd take hold an' help Jenny, you said you 
did n't want anything to do with it." 

"I don't know as I said those very words," an- 
swered Sam, adding, "but even if I did, I meant 
all the time to go in with you." 

" Now, Sam, you did n't mean anything of the 
kind," interrupted Pinney. " You said you would 

n't go in with fellers that never gave you a show 
to have things as you wanted 'em." 

" That's jest the way I spected you 'd talk, Pin- 
ney White," protested Sam, in an injured tone; 
" I put all my money into the concern, an' lost it, 
so now you want to put me out." 

' ' All your money ! " repeated Pinney indignantly. 
"You put in two dollars an' eighty cents, an' got a 
whole week's board out of it. When Duddy took 
your place, he had to pay back what you 'd bor- 
rered of Ikey." 

To this Sam had no reply that seemed to fit 
the case ; but changing his manner he said, with a 
menacing gesture : 

"I '11 find out whether you fellers can cheat me 
so. You jest wait till I tell that lawyer the whole 
thing, an' then we '11 see whether you get your 
swell house or not." 

Master Tousey strode majestically away as he 
ceased speaking, leaving Ikey and Pinney in a very 
uncomfortable frame of mind ; for they feared that 
Sam, by telling the story in his way, might possi- 
bly prevent them from receiving the loan. 

Tom and Duddy, when told of the threat, pro- 
fessed to think that it was nothing more than fool- 
ish talk ; but they both looked disturbed, and it is 
just possible that Master Foss might have paid Mr. 
Barstow a third visit on that day, if his attention had 
not been suddenly called to a very serious matter. 

" Say, fellers, have you seen that 'tisement 'bout 
a baby ? " called out an acquaintance, who suddenly 
came running across the street at full speed. 

"A — baby ? " repeated Pinney, his face growing 
pale despite the bronzing it had received from wind 
and sun. 

" Yes, a baby ! An' it looks a good deal to me 
as if it meant the one you fellers found," shouted 
the new-comer. 

" Why don't you tell us what it is, an' not stand 
there talkin' 'bout what you think?" asked Tom 

"It 's nothin' but jest a 'tisement. You can 
read for yourselves," said the boy, as he handed 
the paper to Tom, and pointed out the article. 

The directors, all of them looking frightened, 

crowded around Tom while he slowly spelled out 

the following : 


" On November 18, a child eleven months old was taken from its 
home, and, it is believed, was left at some house in this city. Any 
information concerning it will be thankfully received by a sorrowing 
mother, and the informants will be liberally rewarded. 
" Giles & Beach, 

' ; Attorneys-at-law." 

It was not until each of the directors in turn had 
read the notice, that the paper was given to the 
owner, and then five very disconsolate-looking boys 
stood silently gazing at one another. 

i88 7 .) 



" It 'II be rather hard if you have to give the 
baby back jest when you 're goin' to get a new 
house, won't it ? " suggested Jim Chick, looking 
as sad as if he owned a share in November, in- 
stead of being only a prospective boarder. 

" Who says we 've got to give him back?" de- 
manded Pinney fiercely. " Nobody knows whether 
that means our baby or not. Besides, I guess 
we 've a better right to him than anybody else ; 
for he 'd 'a' frozen to death if we had n't taken him 
into the house that night." 

" But there 's the 'tisement," persisted Jim. 

"I don't care for a thousand of 'em; that 
makes no difference. November belongs to us, 
an' that 's all there is to it. Did n't we keep 
him from gettin' frozen ? Did n't we buy milk 
for him so 's he 'd have somethin' to eat ? Are n't 
we takin' care of him, an' did n't we give him all 
the name he has ? I 'd jest like to see the feller 
that says we don't own that baby." 

Pinney actually glared upon the crowd as he stood 
in a threatening attitude. 

"What do you think, Tom?" asked Ikey in a 

"I don't know what to think," said Tom, with 
hesitation. "Of course we 're not sure that it 
means November ; but I s'pose we ought to find 

" What do you want to go tryin' to find out 
for?" shouted Pinney. "Let 'em come an' see 
if he 's theirs an' if they can get him. I 'm jest 
as much of a director as any other feller, an' I 
say that nobody shall get our baby." 

"We '11 find Jenny and see what she thinks," 
Tom said gravely. " Here, Joe, here 're two cents 
for the paper. An' now, fellers, let 's go home." 

At first Pinney stoutly declared that he would 
not permit the others even to consult Mrs. Par- 
sons and Jenny on the subject ; but when he saw 
that they were determined, he followed, scolding 
at the highest pitch of his shrill voice against those 
who would try to take November from them. All 
the good fortune of the day was forgotten in the 
fear that they might lose the baby. 

Jenny was not at home when the boys entered 
the house. She had been in for a moment after 
her return from the lawyer's office, and then had 
started out at once in search of a house. 

As the boys were unwilling to tell the sad news 
to Mrs. Parsons alone, they waited on the side- 

walk for the young landlady, heedless alike of 
cold and wind. 

When, a short time after dark, Jenny came up, 
walking briskly and looking as happy as a girl can 
look, Tom handed her the paper, having first 
folded it so that the advertisement could be plainly 
seen, and said : 

" Go into the house an' read that." 

"Why, what is the matter?" she asked, as she 
observed her partners' sorrowful looks. 

" Read that and you '11 find out," replied Tom, 
as he pushed her gently toward the door. Then, 
as Jenny entered the house, the directors trooped 
in silently behind her, waiting anxiously to hear 
what she would say. 

" Why, Tom, this must mean November," she 
cried in excitement, as she read the advertisement 
and handed the paper to her mother. 

" You look as if you was glad," said Pinney in 
an angry tone. 

" And so I am ! We all ought to be thankful 
that we can give him to his very own mother. 
Only think how badly she must have felt when he 
was taken from her ! " said the sympathetic girl. 

" Bless me, what does the child mean ? " asked 
Mrs. Parsons in cmerulous tones, as she nervously 
and vainly fumbled in her pocket for her spectacles, 
which were on her head. "Tell me what the 
matter is, Jenny, for I never can find my specs 
when I want them." 

"I 'II read it for you, Mother," replied Jenny; and 
when she had done so, the old lady said joyfully : 

" I knew we should learn some day who his 
parents were ! Can you find those men who have 
advertised, Jenny?" 

"I don't believe I can to-night; but I '11 start 
out the very first thing in the morning." 

"Then you believe that means November, do 
you ? " asked Tom in a sorrowful tone. 

"Of course it does. It 's not likely it can be 
for any other baby," said Mrs. Parsons; "it's a 
very fortunate thing that you boys happened to 
see the advertisement." 

" Do — do — you mean that you 're going to give 
him back? " asked Pinney. 

" Certainly we must," replied the old lady. 

"Then I '11 see what I can do," and Pinney 
shook his fist angrily. " I say he 's our baby, an' 
there shan't anybody get him, if I have to stand 
there with a club to keep folks away ! " 

(To be continued.) 




By Palmer Cox. 

When Independence Day was nigh — 
And children laid their pennies by, 
Arranging plans how every cent 
Should celebrate the grand event, 
The Brownies in their earnest way 
Expressed themselves about the day. 
Said one: " The time is drawing near — 
To every freeman's heart so dear, 
When citizens throughout the land, 
From Western slope to Eastern strand, 
Will celebrate with booming gun 
Their liberties so dearly won ! " 

Trust me to lead you to a place 
Where fireworks of every kind 
Are made to suit the loyal mind. 
There, Roman candles are in store, 

" A fitting time," another cried, 
" For us, who many sports have tried, 
To introduce our mystic art 
And in some manner play a part." 
A third replied, with beaming face : 

And bombs that like a cannon roar ; 
While 'round the room one may behold 
Designs of every size and mold, — 
The wheels that turn, when all ablaze, 
And scatter sparks a thousand ways ; 

i88 7 .] 



The eagle bird, with pinions spread ; 
The busts of statesmen ages dead ; 
And him who led his tattered band 
Against invaders of the land 
Until he shook the country free 
From grasp of kings beyond the sea. 
We may from this supply with ease 

And, acting on the plans they laid, 
A journey to the town was made. 
The Brownies never go astray, 
However puzzling is the way ; 
With guides before and guards behind, 
They cut through every turn and wind, 
Until a halt was made at last 

Secure a share whene'er we please; 
And on these hills behind the town 
That to the plain go sloping down, 
We '11 take position, come what may, 
And celebrate the Nation's Day." 

Before a building bolted fast. 
But those who think they turn around 
And leave because no keys are found 
Should entertain the thought no more, 
But study up the Brownie lore. 

That eve, when stars began to shine, 
The eager band was formed in line, 

Ere long, upon the homeward road 
They hastened with their novel load ; 




And when the bell in chapel tower 
Gave notice of the midnight hour, 
The ruddy flame, the turning wheel. 
The showering sparks and deafening peal 

The largest planets shrunk away ; 
While twinkling orbs of lesser flame 
Appeared to hide their heads in shame. 
At times, in spite of warning cries, 

Showed Brownies in the proper way 
Gave welcome to the glorious day. 

The eagles, through the gloom of night, 
Looked down like constellations bright ; 
The rockets, whizzing to and fro, 
Illumed the slumbering town below ; 
While, towering there with eyes of fire, 
As when he made his foes retire, 
Above all emblems duly raised, 
The Father of his Country blazed. 
Before the brilliant, grand display, 

Some proved too slow at closing zji^, 
Some ears were stunned, some noses got 
Too close to something quick and hot, 
And fingers bore for days and weeks 
The trace of hasty powder's freaks. 

But there, while darkness wrapped the hill, 
The Brownies celebrated still; 
For, pleasures such as this they found 
But seldom in their roaming 'round ; 
And with reluctant feet they fled 
When morning tinged the sky with red. 

i88 7 .] 



By Florence H. Smith. 

One beautiful summer evening, the avenues of 
a large city were thronged with people on their 
way to the different churches. At a certain cor- 
ner, however, several persons were standing, gaz- 
ing apparently into the air. Others 
soon joined them, until so large a 
crowd was gathered that the way 
was completely blocked. 

The attention of two policemen 
was attracted, and they, too, went 
to see what was the matter; but 
once on the spot, they stood like 
the rest, with open mouths and 
eyes, and faces upturned to the 
sky. Soon the windows along the 
street were thronged with people, 
and a number of persons were seen 
on the tops of the houses in the 
neighborhood, all intently gazing 
in one direction. 

And what do you think they 
saw ? Clinging for dear life to a 
jutting ornament, near the top of 
a tall church-steeple that pointed 
straight up into the soft evening 
air, was a black cat. " How did it 
get there ? " was the first question 
every one asked ; and " How will 
it get down ? " was the next. 

The poor creature was looking 
down, and at frequent intervals it 
uttered a pitiful cry, as if calling to 
the crowd below for help. Once, 
it slipped and fell a short distance 
down the sloping side of the stee- 
ple, and an exclamation of pity 
came from the crowd, now intensely interested in 
its fate. Luckily the cat's claws caught on another 
projection, and for the moment it was safe. 

Some looker-on suggested that it be shot in 
order to save it from the more dreadful death 
that seemed to await it ; but no one was willing 
to fire the shot. Ere long a little window some 
distance above the place where the cat was cling- 
ing was seen to open. Two boys had determined 
to save it ; they had mounted the stairs to 
where the bell hung, and then by a ladder had 
reached the window. They had taken a board 
up with them, and they now pushed one end of 
it out of the window and lowered it till it was 
within reach of the cat. Then, by encouraging 

words and signs they tried to persuade the crea- 
ture to step on the plank. Puss seemed to under- 
stand, and put out one paw, but drew it back 
immediately ; and at that instant one of the boys 

accidentally let go his hold, the board turned over, 
and the cat would certainly have been dashed to 
the ground had it trusted to that means of escape. 
The boys withdrew the board, and soon re-ap- 
pearing at the window, were seen to be lowering a 
basket down the side of the steeple. Pussy, having 
now ceased to cry, watched it intently as it slowly 
came nearer and nearer. When it was within 
reach, the cat carefully put out one paw and took 
hold of the side of the basket, then as carefully 
repeated the action with the other paw, then drew 
itself up, and with a violent effort flung itself over 
the side and into the bottom of the basket. The 
next moment it was safely drawn up to the window, 
amid loud cheers from the spectators below. 





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1 I'll 1 I 
mi iiMIl Ml WiVviiifli /ii '"ill i WW *i 

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1 1 III I tii<#0 'ill ' MMtoi ! t Ml I 1 'in 


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[■'I ™. "ill ill|/llLlU.U '/ ■TiVW 


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W#MW||llllli lllll||lll/ip3''»'iW'/ l J«%! l li JW(lj| t M//li^ 


* >r W 

'rn a iady'of pank fporn Japan, 
Please be as polite as you cap. 
/V\y beautiful clothes you rnay 

Scan — 
/V\y §apn?ents of tinsel a 1 ?^ cpape, 
1 17 purple and ped like the Jpape, 
/\nd cut in P90st elegant S^ape 
£3y a queer little dpess-n?akep 

5>ut please do not handle rny fan ; 
'f Would be peckoped quite pude 

in \apan. 

/V\y lips ape 3 U S^ panted to shoui 
/V\y little black teeth in a poW, 
With a <|Ioss I'ke the back of a 

cpou) ; 
/\nd if you look close and ane 

You n?ay see in rny long) nappoW 

/\ Jneat deal of Well-bped s up ' 

That otbep folks' teeth ape not 


■ 887/ 



9 e> 

Vepy corQTQor) youpg fpy ape uie tbpee, 
Very lirrpp at the elboW apd kpee, 
Clad ip cheap cottop gov/ps as you see, 
/v^ade up it? gpeat baste With a baste 
/\pd tied With a pa§ at the uiaist 
V/itbout apy ppetepsiop +° taste. 
|t uiould be out of taste, We agpee ; 
pop ip fokio, ouep the sea, 
Peui dollies ape loVIy a$ u3e. 

Though rpade of such uepy cheap clay, 
paked With do^eps beS^S '■? a + p ay, 
V/e ape quite poly-poly apd gay. 
Oup flin7sy sides s^ake v/bep 't is said 
That oup fpipge 09 the cpoWp of the bead 
IS p't baip, but your?J bpistles ipstead ; 
/\pd it causes us little dismay 
That oup joints uiobble 'poupd, they do say, 
]p a n?ost upaccouptable uiay, — 
/\S i^e peuep use these ip the day. 


put the i7?ice apd the pussy-cats s ee 
fuppy fpolics at pigbt u)bep v7e 'pe fpee, 
/\pd the 070017 looks '9 ouep the tpee. 
The lady-doll tied in. hep case, 
ty/itb a coVep of silk 017 hep face, 
|S too haughty to joip ip the pace. 
V/e ape gMad We ape pot ip hep place ; 
]t 's S° l°"y r^ope louMy to be. 
fbougb she says it s u '+S ^sp to a f, 
Apd a oiopshipful lady 15 she. 

,»/.„,„.... ,7||, ,J|,.«M.J.. . .^im^.iijf,,^ 



ft*J)||i|l! Willi 



■ 'i&w tionceWTTfaijrio-s'e #itifl;;i 

J.,. ^„K ^WvTn .lotlrAnR.Ana.^'polbie. 


Vol. XIV.— 51 





By Charles G. Leland. 

THERE is a very curious and effective style of 
ornamental, or decorative, art, which — though oc- 
casionally practiced in Turkey and other Eastern 
countries — is by no means very common even 
where it is best known. It may be called bead- 
inlaying, and it is so easy that any boy or girl ten 
years old can achieve excellent results in it by fol- 
lowing these simple directions : 

Take a piece of wood, let us say beech or ma- 
hogany or pear-tree or, indeed, any of the fine- 
grained kinds. Let it be half an inch in thickness 
and twelve inches in length by six in breadth. 
Draw on it your design. This done, follow the pat- 
tern with a series of holes, bored in the wood with a 
straight round awl or a drill or a gimlet, as close to- 
gether as possible without splitting the wood between 

~*~ » •*•'*-•-**. 



them. Then put the beads into the holes so that 
their perforations will show. To secure the beads 
in place, the holes may first be filled with glue or 
varnish. The work will then be very durable. If 
you choose, the holes in the beads may be filled 
with a mixture of fine transparent glue and any 
coloring matter, such as umber or chrome. The 
beads should be sunk rather deeply into the wood. 
When the wood splits easily, or it is desirable to 
make the holes very close together, the holes may 
be bored with a hot iron rod. It will often add to 
the effect if a line, or fine groove, be cut with 
a penknife or a parting, or Y, tool around the 
edge of the bead pattern. The ground may also 
be stamped, or indented, with a wood-carver's 

Small boxes or caskets, thin panels for albums, 
indeed any kind of wooden surface, may be thus 
decorated. The drawing on this page represents 
a plate used by the attendants in a Turkish bathing 
house for receiving the gratuities of customers as 
they go out. The money is taken in the circular 

part of the plate and slides through the handle into 
the pocket of the tellak, or attendant. Great num- 
bers of bathers must at times go out together, to 
render such a contrivance necessary, and this plate 
is at least a century old, yet every bead is in its 
place and somewhat worn — which indicates the 
lasting quality of such work when carefully made. 

It is evident that no great skill or knowledge of 
art is needed to inlay beads. Such taste, in regard 
to colors and their contrasts, as ladies use in se- 
lecting designs in embroidery is of course required ; 
but there are, I suppose, few people who do 
not believe they possess competent knowledge for 
this. In a piece of dark wood, white or light beads 
of course make a better show than dark beads ; 
very dark brown or black beads look well on a 
light yellow or pale yellowish brown surface. 



The Oriental work acquires great r: 
the occasional intermingling of real 
with those of glass. 

ichness from 
coral beads 

.88 7 .] 



This art, trifling as it seems, is capable of consid- 
erable extension in ornament of different kinds. In- 
deed it will be found that the general effect of well 
chosen colors in such work is much richer, quainter, 

far beyond the cost of the marbles, though they 
were the most expensive agates. Marbles and 
beads may be set together. To make the holes for 
the former, a center-bit or auger should be used. 
Long, straight beads may be used with good effect. 
To set them, make grooves with a gouge, and 
coat the grooves with mastic or Turkish cement, 
or with strong varnish, and press the long beads, 
or bugles, into the cavities. 

Bead-inlaying is very suitable to picture-frames, 
hand-mirrors, hanging shelves, letter-boxes, and, 
indeed, to all plain surfaces of wood. It will bear 
handling and cleaning. If beads are broken or 
knocked out, they may be readily replaced. 

It is a perfectly well understood principle in all 
repousse, or sheet-metal, work, that knobs, balls, 
and shining points are especially adapted to it, 
because they reflect light and catch the eye ; and 
great numbers of sixteenth century plates and sal- 
vers are ornamented with grapes, apples, or other 
round fruit. Bunches of grapes are very easily im- 
itated with large beads. If a stem or vine is needed 
to connect them, it may be made by scratching or 
cutting a fine groove in the wood, coating it with 
cement, and laying in it wire of any metal. This 
is hammered or rolled or pressed thoroughly into 
the wood, and then sometimes polished off with 
a file. Insignificant as this industry may seem, 
thousands of people in Morocco and other Eastern 
countries make a living by ornamenting pipe- 


and far more artistic than would generally be sup- 
posed. It does not appear to be either trashy or 
trifling ; in fact, many persons would not suppose 
at a casual glance that it was made with beads at 
all. When a very small brass-headed pin or tack 
is passed through each bead, the appearance of 
the whole is very much improved. Such tacks 
may be obtained with convex, or half-round heads 
not larger than those of pins. 

Of course, work of this kind need not be strictly 
limited to beads. The different kinds of the marbles 
used by boys may similarly be set in wood ; and 
they are made in an endless variety of color. A 
cabinet thus studded would be increased in value 





9 m 





bowls and other objects, by it. Sometimes, as in a 
wooden pipe in my possession which came from 
Algiers, the wire is twisted in a cord, and after- 
ward filed. German silver wire is excellently 
adapted to this work. Almost any pattern which 
can be drawn in simple lines may thus be imi- 
tated in wire, and striking pictorial effects pro- 
duced. Picture-frames may be made very beautiful 
by such inlaying, especially if wire of different 
sizes and metals be employed. 




In this connection let me remark that no kind 
of industry or art can be regarded as trifling when 
a poor person can make a living by it, or when 
any number of people, old or young, find in it 
amusement, relaxation, or instruction. I have 
known many families in which the practice of the 
minor arts was discouraged under a mistaken im- 
pression that it caused a waste of time, or in- 
duced tastes and habits which disqualified the 
young from forming ''business habits." This is 
a great mistake. All practical arts, however small, 
induce habits of patience, industry and self-control. 
They form habits of thinking ; for, as men have 

composed books while making shoes, so others 
can not help pursuing trains of thought while carv- 
ing, basket-making or setting beads. And it is 
gradually being found out and recognized that 
hand-work of any kind, but more especially that 
which interests us, develops the constructive facul- 
ties; that is to say, makes us apt with the fingers, 
and quicker at perceiving anything, or at inventing 
or finding out ways and means to make or do 

From this point of view, even setting beads 
and inlaying with wire may have their good 
effects as moral discipline. 


By Frank Bellew. 

Get a clean pine board of about ten by eighteen 
inches, and mark it out in circles of about two 
inches diameter, as represented in the chart. 
Half the board should be blackened with ink or 
paint, as indicated, and the circles colored white. 
The other half the board should be white, and the 
circles in it colored a light blue or red. Then 
make two darts, about six inches long, out of pine 
wood, with a feather at one end and a needle at the 
other. Soak a number of split beans in water until 
they are quite soft, and place one in every circle. 
Attach a thread to each of the beans you place in 
the circles marked " King Bean." 

the dark half of the board belonging to the player 
whose King Bean is on that side, and all the beans 
on the light half belonging to the other player. 

When a player spears an adversary's bean so that 
it can be carried off the board on the point of the 
dart, he counts the number marked on the circle 
from which it was taken. If he misses, he counts 

To play the game, the two players now seat 
themselves on opposite sides of a table on which 
they have placed the bean-board, each holding a 
dart in one hand and a string attached to the 
nearest King Bean in the other. Having decided 
which is to play first, each player in turn shoots 
his dart at his adversary's beans ; all the beans on 

nothing ; and if he strikes on his own ground, in- 
stead of his opponent's, he loses five; that is to 
say, five is deducted from his score. When 
a player spears his opponent's King Bean, 
he counts one hundred. But a player, if 
he thinks his adversary is trying to spear 
his King Bean, may pull it away by the 
thread. If, however, he pulls it away on a 
false alarm before the other shoots, or when 
the dart strikes within one of the other cir- 
cles, he loses five ; that is, five is deducted 
from his score. But if the dart strikes within 
the King Bean circle, or if it strikes in the 
space between the circles, but not on the 
player's half of the board, neither counts. 
It is the object of each player to mislead 
his opponent on this point, and make his adver- 
sary believe he is about to attack the latter's King 
Bean, when, in reality, he is aiming at something 
else. Whoever first scores one hundred and ten 
wins the game. 

Small counters of felt or stout cloth can be used 
instead of beans, and will last much longer. 

i88 7 .] 




By Isabel Frances Bellows. 


Said the Bumblebee 
To the Wicked Flea, 
" If you keep on long this way, 
You '11 certainly come 
To make your home 
In the county jai 
some day ! " 


When out came the Gnat, 

In a shiny hat, 
With a whip of barley straw ; 

And in awful tones 

He threatened their bones 
With the majesty of the law. 


And the Bumblebee 
And the Wicked Flea 

Shivered with fear and dread ; 
And clasping each other 
Like brother and brother, 

Precipitately fled ! 

Said the Wicked Flea 

To the Bumblebee, 
You 're a fat old meddling 
thing ! 

And if you will fight 

With me to-night, 
Two pistols I will bring." 






By Anna M. Pratt. 

" Dear Mr. Spider," said little Miss Muffet, 
" Excuse me for running away from the tuffet, 

That was cause I was young ; 
I 'in now very old — just four years to-day. 
Mr. Spider, I '11 give you a spoonful of whey 

If you '11 hold out your tongue. 
Won't you taste of this curd ? It 's much nicer than flies. 
Here the spider determined, with tears in his eyes, 

He would give tit for tat ; 
So he turned out his toes, took his hat in his hand, 
And made her a bow so exceedingly grand ! — 

They were friends after that. 

■ 88 7 .i 




Py N- P- pabcock. 



Pid you eVep, S'<?ce eVep you eVep Were bopp, 
peap about little M'SS M a y U'?' C0PI ? ? 
V/bo spept all hep rnopey 
pop bopey 
(poW Tuippy !) 
V/bep she rpijbt baVe kept bees, 

/\r;d obtaiped it fporp these, 
Apd saued all the rnopey 
5be spept fop tbe bopey 
"To sepd to tbe beatbep u3ay ouep tbe s ea S ? 

Pid you euep, S'pce euep you euep Wepe bopp 
peap boW this little M'SS M a y U n ' cor ' n 
5uspectipg that "Pllly" 

W&5 chilly? 

(How silly !) 

Pouobt a scapf fop tbe tbpoat 
Of that old billy goat, 

V/bep all be pequiped, 

ty/bep cold op u)ben tiped, 

V/as to settle birnself in- bis ou ^"? Woolly coat. 

Pid you euep, sipce euep you euep u3epe bopp, 
peap uibat this little M'SS M a y Upicopp 
Qnce did to a dolly 



rap pot 

[Marked Polly? 
(V/bat tolly!) 
Sbe bapdaged its eyes 
V/bile rnakipg rnud pies, 
pop feap tbat tbe dolly 
V/ould laugb at bep folly, 
■p a dolly, you kpoui, 
!au§b if it tpies. 





GOOD-MORROW, my Yankee hearers. As the 
Fourth of July is at hand, and the Deacon does 
not approve of fire-crackers and cannon, it occurs 
to me to fire off a brisk newspaper "fact" by way 
of a celebration. If it sets you investigating, it will 
not have exploded in vain. Now, all attention ! 


"A novel flower has been found on the Isthmus of Tehuantepec, 
at the San Jose Hacienda, some twenty-two leagues from the city of 
Tehuantepec. This floral chameleon has the faculty of changing its 
colors during the day- In the morning it is white, when the sun is 
at the zenith it is red, and at night it is blue. This red, white, and 
blue flower grows on a small tree, and only at noon does it give out 
any perfume." 

[By the way, the newspaper does n't tell us how 
it happens that a flower so exactly suited to the 
soil of this great Republic should be confined to 
the Isthmus of Tehuantepec] 

And now, having set off my little "fact," I will, 
with your permission, send up a small flight of 
fable- rockets, prepared for you by Mr. Austin 
Bierbower. Each rocket, I must tell you, has a 
little stick of a moral, which — if it does not hit you 
on the head in falling — you may search for and 
pick up at your leisure : 

The Squirrel and the Nut. 

A squirrel cracking a nut said, " I have made a discovery ! 
This kernel was never before seen." "There are many things not 
in sight," replied the kernel, " which are nevertheless not new." 

The Hawk and the Farmer. 

A hawk, stealing a chicken, was reproved by a farmer for taking 
that on which he had spent no labor. The hawk replied, " I have 
spent as much labor to get that chicken as you spent to raise it." 

The Amiable Quail. 

A quail, being missed by a gunner, said, " I grieve for your bad 
marksmanship ; but, in this case, I gladly forgive your miss." 


Now you shall hear from Anna M. Pratt. The 
lady has a pretty good explanation to offer con- 
cerning an old weather sign in which almost every- 
body has a little faith, — more or less: 

When the fair young moon appears 

Sliding down the sunset sky, 
The weather-wise look up to see 
If the coming month will be 

A wet one or a dry. 

If the silver crescent lie 

Slantwise in the fading west, 
" Ah ! " say they, " 't is very plain 
This month there '11 be but little rain; 

The sign is manifest. 

" For when the hunter's powder-horn 
Will hang upon the curving moon. 

It means the weather will be fair ; 

But if he can not hang it there, 
The rain is coming soon." 

Why the hunter should himself 

Of his powder dispossess 
And let the pleasant days go by, 
To hunt beneath a dripping sky, 

I vainly sought to guess. 

Till at last 't was told to me, 

By one versed in sylvan lore, 
That no rustling leaf betrays 
The hunter, when on rainy days 

He treads the forest floor. 

Thus the old folk read the sign, 

Many years ere you were born ; 
And fair weather was foretold, 
If the crescent moon would hold 
The hunter's powder-horn. 


Tommy Brown, of the red schoolhouse, has 
suddenly become an artist. The approach of 
vacation has inspired him to produce his first work 
of art. Here it is, and, as Tommy says, it speaks 
for itself. 

If you see the dear Little Schoolma'am coming, 
boys, you need n't stop cheering. She is as glad 
as you are. 

,88 7 .) 




The Little School-ma'am has heard that a 
gentleman of Texas, named Henry Ray, has dis- 
covered the secret of the quail's being able to hide 
so well. He was walking in a field when a covey 
of birds was flushed or, in other words, startled 
from its resting-place. One alighted near him, 
and the moment it did so, seized a dead oak leaf, 
crouched to the ground and managed to hide itself 
completely under the leaf. Mr. Ray said that he 
had to go and turn over the leaf before he could 
believe the evidence of his own eyes. 

Now, my young observers and inquirers, after 
this, don't forget to take special notice of quail 
whenever you happen to be near their possible- 
haunts. You need n't turn over every oak leaf in 
the woods ; but keep your eyes open, that 's all. 

He not only can not sink his head into his coat- 
collar as other turtles do, but, struggle as he may, 
he must always leave some part of his graceful 
figure exposed to wind and weather. For this 
reason he is called the alligator-terrapin, and I '111 

d nine. 


John and Ed, aged respectively eleven an 
were shelling peas for the cook. Said Ed : 

" John, where do plants come 
from ? " 

" From seeds, of course ! " was 
the reply. 

" Well, where do seeds come 
from?" persisted Ed. 

" Oh, they come from other 
plants, and those plants come from 
seeds, and those seeds come from 
plants. But what / 'd like to 
know," continued John, "is where 
the first seed came from." 

" Does anybody know that, 
John ? " queried Ed. 

" No," said John, as he shelled 
peas vigorously. After a moment's 
thought, he added, " Well, I don't 
see what good it would do if any- 
body did know, unless he could 
get a patent on it and charge folks 
for telling them." 

Now, these two boys were 
brought to the red schoolhouse 
by a lady, and she says, and the 
Little School-ma'am says, and we 
all say — don't we? — that John is 
n't likely to waste time in learn- 
ing things that are not taught at 
the red schoolhouse. 


We talked last month about 
many animals that are born with 
ready-made suits. Most of them, 
you remember, are admirably 
adapted to the wearers. But, 
with all due respect to Dame Na- 
ture, is n't the coat of the snap- 
ping-turtle a trifle too small for him ? The Little 
School-ma'am says that it either needs to be "let 
out" in the back or to be "pieced" at the neck. 

told that many of the Agassiz Association boys 
know him as the Chelydia serpentina. Comment 
is unnecessary. 

Now, who can tell me of any animal that has a 
coat which seems to be too big for him ? The 
Deacon says that it has always appeared to him 
that the coat of the rhinoceros is not a very snug 
fit ; but, then, it may make up in durability for its 
lack in style. 

Dear Jack : I wonder if your young 
hearers can repeat rapidly and correctly 
this little sentence, which was given to me 
by a newspaper-man not long ago : 

" The sea ceaseth, and dismisseth us with his 
blessing." Yours truly, Albert H. S. 





Contributors are respectfully informed that, between the ist of June and the 15th of September, manuscripts can not conveniently be 

examined at the office of St. Nicholas. Consequently, those who desire to favor the magazine with contributions 

will please postpone sending their MSS. until after the last-named date. 

In justice to Mr. Ernest E. Thompson, whose article, " The Drum- 
mer on Snowshoes," was printed in the April number of St. 
Nicholas, we ought to state that the small picture entitled "A Par- 
tridge Drumming," on page 416, is not, like the other illustrations 
of the article, the work of the author himself. Mr. Thompson drew 

his pictures after very careful personal observation of the partridge 
and its habits, and he states that the bird shown in the drawing does 
not bear much resemblance to a partridge and that the attitude is not 
correct. Mr. Thompson therefore should not be held responsible 
for any inaccuracy in the illustration. 


Belleville, 111. 

Dear St. Nicholas : I am a little Kentucky girl, but I live in the 
'Germany of America," as Belleville is called. There are more 
Germans here than Americans. 

My auntie gave you to me Christmas, and I love you so much. 
I am so anxious for "Juan and Juanita" to reach home safely. I 
have one little brother who calls "Juan and Juanita" "John and 
Johnita." He is such a funny little fellow. Last summer, when 
Mamma was canning fruit, she missed him; and what do you sup- 
pose he was doing when we found him ? He was pushing our little 
young kittens into a fruit-can, and said he was " tanning tats." He 
meant "canning cats." I hope we can take dear St. Nicholas as 
loug as we live. 

A constant reader, Sarah Deane \V . 

Stockholm, Sweden. 

Dear St. Nicholas : My great-uncle, in New York, has taken 
St. Nicholas for my brother and myself for a year. I like St. 
Nicholas very much. My mother has begun to read to me "Juan 
and Juanita," and I think it is very interesting. 

I have four little brothers and one little sister, whose name is 

Now it is spring, and the peasant- girls, in their bright costumes, 
are coming down from Dalecarlia to make the gardens, and one sees 
their pointed caps everywhere. 

Our mother is an American, and my oldest brother and I have 
been once to America and would like to go again. 

I am nine years old. 

From your little friend, Annie B . 

Rockland, Me. 

Dear St. Nicholas: I suppose you remember receiving a letter 
last November from Mabel E. Snow. She and her papa and mamma 
and her brother used to live here, and are expected home soon. 
Three years ago they went to California, and then, I think, to 

When I saw her letter, I thought that if little Mabel Snow could 
write to you I could. 

I am twelve years old, and love to read very much, — so much 
that they call me a bookworm. I try not to read much, but I 'm 
afraid — 

I have a friend who is about as much of a bookworm as myself. 
One of her great ambitions is to see Damascus, the oldest city in the 
world. / would rather go to Germany, though. I do not know why, 
but it seems to have a sort of fascination for me. When I can find a 
book or story about Germany I seize upon it eagerly. 

We have two pets — a cat and a dog. The cat is very small, and 
a part of her pretty fur is white. Her name is Pansy. The dog's 
name is Wildfire. He is black, with the exception of a while spot 
on his breast that we call his shirt-front. His hair is very curly and 
silky. He is a cocker spaniel. We have also a beautiful black 
horse that we call Crescent, because of a white spot of that shape on 
his forehead. He is very handsome, and holds his head high up in 
the air. 

Dear old St. Nick, I "love you more than tongue can tell," as 
we children say. Good-bye. From Jessie C. K . 

Bronxville, N. Y. 

Dear St. Nicholas : I thought I would write you a few lines to 
tell you how much we all like your magazine. We have several 
magazines at our school, but I like St. Nicholas best. The stories 
are all so nice I can hardly choose which is best, although I think 
"Juan and Juanita" and " Little Lord Fauntleroy" are the most 

We have taken St. Nicholas for four years; that is, we have 
drawn it from our school library for that time. 

Our little brother (four years old) loves to look at the pictures in 
St. Nicholas, and likes the "Brownies" best. He always looks 
for the " dude " and the " Chinaman." 

Your admiring reader, Julia C . 

Toledo, Ohio. 
Dear St. Nicholas : I have taken you for nine years. I never 
read so delightful a story as "Little Lord Fauntleroy," and I wish 
Mrs. Burnett would write a sequel to it. 

I am very anxious about "Juan and Juanita." I hope they will 
get to their mother, have plenty of food, and never meet the Co- 
manche tribe. 

I remain, your interested reader, Kate O . 

P.S. — St. Nicholas " Dog Stories " are splendid. 

Charleston, III. 

Dear St. Nicholas: This is the first letter I have ever written 
to you. I have never seen a letter in your book from this place yet, 
and I have concluded to write. At my school, every month, the 
pupils contribute to buy your attractive magazine, and that is how 
I get it to read. I am twelve years old. 

I did not get the beginning of the story entitled "Little Lord 
Fauntleroy," and so I did not get it to read; but I like "Jenny's 
Boarding-house," and "Juan and Juanita" very much. In the 
May number I liked the story about "Sherman's March to the 
Sea," because Father was in the army with Sherman. My brother, 
who is nine years old, likes the " Brownie Band" the best, for the 
little funny men that belong to the " Band." 

I found all the letters of the alphabet, in the May number, in the 
" Monogram." I always like to read the " Letter-box." 

I remain, your eager reader, Orvy D . 

Enclewood, N. J. 

Dear St. Nicholas: I think that you will become quite vain 
if everybody says you are the dearest old Saint in the world; but, 
just the same, I really think you are. 

Last June I went to England and staid till November. I think 
I saw everything in and out of London, and must say, even if you 
object, that I like England almost better than America. The weather 
is not all fogs and rain; and surely you have no "Westminster" 
and "Tower" here. I will never forget my first impression, when 
I went from Tilbury Docks to London. It was such a lovely morn- 
ing, and the country, with the green grass and darker green hedges, 
with here and there an old manor among the trees, looked like some 

i88 7 .J 



picture. And "coming in," the chalk cliffs looked so dazzling in 
the sun, and Portland Prison so grim against the sky, that it needed 
little imagination to believe the cliffs fairy-land, and the prison the 
castle of a cruel giant. 1 staid with a lady ninety-seven years old, 
in a house which was nearly two hundred years old. It was built 
of brick, all covered with ivy, and in the midst of lovely large 
grounds, with lake and shrubbery. 

I am, your affectionate reader, Nellie C . 

boy. We have one of the large houses, as they are called, which 
holds forty boys. Frank Irwin, who writes to your paper, was in it 
for a short _ time. The boys' side of the house is shut off from the 
part occupied by our family. 

We are a family of ten — six boys and four girls. I am the third 
in order. One of my brothers is in the school, in the upper fifth. 

I like your paper very much indeed. It is the best I know. 
Your loving reader, Elsie B . 


Dear St. Nicholas : In the May number of St. Nicholas there 
is a description of a method for suspending a bottle from a table by 
means of a match and a string. It states that the feat can be done 
with a match one inch in length. It can be done with a shorter stick 
than that. I took a four-ounce bottle and suspended it with a match- 
stick cut down to a half-inch in length. I advise all my brother and 
sister "'St. Nicholases" to try it. 

I think St. Nicholas " Dog Stories " are very nice. In fact, I 
think the same of all your stories. 

Hoping that you will tell your readers what I have written about 
the bottle and the match, I remain your faithful reader and friend, 

" Bow-wow." 

Talladega, Ala. 

Dear St. Nicholas: You have been coming to my home reg- 
ularly for more than five years, and I have always liked yuu. I am 
especially interested in the story of "Juan and Juanita," and wish 
to read it first of all. " Jenny's Boarding-house " is also very nice. 
My younger brothers became quite excited while listening to the 
"Story of the Merrimac and Monitor" in the last number. 

Not far from our house is a field in which General Jackson and his 
men fought with the Indians seventy-four years ago. In the center 
there is a wall of stones inclosing a small, square piece of ground, 
which marks the place where Jackson's men were buried. I used 
to go there very often to hunt for Indian relics, and I have quite a 
number of arrow-heads which I suppose the Indians used in that 
fight; also, a piece of a tomahawk. Some of the former are very 
small, not much more than half an inch long, and the points are so 
fine that they are usually broken off before we find them. I think 
these must have been used in shooting birds. 

At the time of the earthquake at Charleston last summer, there 
were a few slight shocks felt here. I know they were slight, from 
the accounts given of great earthquakes, but I assure you it was no 
slight matter for me. We live in a good-sized, two-story, brick 
house, and it was shaken quite badly. At first I could n't imagine 
what was the matter with the house, but soon decided it was a cy- 
clone, and that I 'd better wake up my two brothers, who had gone to 
bed, and run to the cellar. I think I never was so frightened as I 
was that night, especially when three other shocks, though very 
slight, followed the first. I pity, with all my heart, the poor people 
of Charleston, who have to endure so much anxiety every night, and 
I congratulate myself that I do not live there. 

Your admiring reader, Mary D. F (15 years). 

Brooklyn, N. Y. 

Dear St. Nicholas: I have not taken you for very long. I like 
you very much. My favorite story is "Juan and Juanita." I hope 
"Jenny's Boarding-house" will be as nice. I was much interested 
in the account of " Harrow-on-the-Hill." 

I have no brothers or sisters. My only pet is a goat. His name 
is Pegasus, after the flying horse, but we call him Peg. I keep him 
at my aunt's in the country. 

From your interested reader, Car A B (age ten years). 

Philadelphia, Pa. 

Dear St. Nicholas: I am a little American girl, though I have 
a foreign name and was born in Pekin, China, though of course my 
name has got nothing to do with my birthplace. I think that I have 
traveled a good deal for my age, as I will be thirteen in June, and 
I have been in China, India, France, Switzerland, Germany, and 
England, besides my own dear land of America. I can talk French, 
as I have passed four years in Geneva, Switzerland, and of course 
can understand everything I read in French in St. Nicholas. That 
little "Lecon " about the hand took me back to the time when I was 
a beginner in the French language, for that was one of the first 
things I learned to speak. 

Some time ago I made a few verses about the daisy, and, bad as 
they are, here they are ! 

The Daisy. 

The stately rose is fair to see, 
The lily hath a charm for me, 
The pansy speaks to me of rest, 
But yet I love the daisy- best. 

Is it the charm of white and gold, 
Is it a secret that can't be told, 
That lurks within her little breast 
And makes me love the daisy best ? 

She stands amid the long, green grass, 
With sunny smile for all who pass, 
And children bring their homage meet 
To Marguerite, sweet Marguerite! 
My Marguerite ! 

I remain, yours very affectionately, 

Caroline E. Schereschewski. 

Cradock, Cape of Good Hope. 

Dear St. Nicholas : We have never seen any letters in your 
" Letter-box " from little girls in South Africa, so we think you will 
like to hear from us. 

We think you are just fine, and we can't tell you how much we 
like you. 

You are always sent to us bv a friend who lives in the Transkei. 

We have got a little dog called Ruby, and he has got a short tail, 
and is so very fat ; and he teases the cat so it 's always thin. 

Mary is seven years old and I am nine. 

Your loving little friends, Flora and Mary Townley A . 


Dear St. Nicholas : I have been meaning to write to you for a 
long while, but now that a description of Harrow has come out in 
your paper, I must, as a stanch Harrovian, say how much I en- 
joyed reading it. The pictures of Harrow are very good indeed. 
I should have known them anywhere. I liked the description very 
much, too ; and it will give your readers a very good idea of Harrow. 
It is such a nice place, it is no wonder the boys are so patriotic. 

I call myself an Harrovian, but I am not in the school, as I am 
a girl of fourteen ; but my father has been a master here for twenty 
years, so I have lived here all my life, and love it as much as any 

Savannah, Ga. 
Dear St. Nicholas : I have a little brother, and he is four years 
of age. My father is a planter on the Savannah River. There is a 
barn near our house, and we children delight in calling out names, 
which are echoed back to us from the bam. My little brother asked 
Mamma, " Where all dem little echoes stay ? " I think that " Juan 
and Juanita" is such a nice story, and I hope that "Jenny's Board- 
ing-house" will be as interesting. In fact, I think I enjoy each 
new St. Nicholas more than the last one. 

Your devoted reader, Lily D. B (aged ten years). 

Galveston, Texas. 
Dear St. Nicholas : As I have seen so many nice little letters 
in you, I thought that I would write and tell you how I appreciate 
your stories. I think that "Juan and Juanita" is just splendid. 
They must have been very brave to face the Indians with so much 
energy. I have not taken you very long, but what time I have, I 
could not give you up. I am, your subscriber, Adele P . 

Dear St. Nicholas: 1 am Adele's little sister, and am eight years 
old. She reads me all of your nice stories. 

Your little friend, Margie. 




Dear St. Nicholas : As I have not seen a letter in Latin for some 
time, I will send one. Though not very good, perhaps some of 
your readers can translate it. 

Carus St. Nicholas: Tu pro quattuor annos cepimus, sed don- 
dum epistolam tibi scripsi. Epistolam Latine scribam, pro vos dis- 
cipulos transferrent. 

Scholae hieme in oppidi Mendonis eo. 

Te promissus vitam volens, maneo, Harry W. Baldwin. 

An Anecdote or Fable. 

Hoedus et Lupus. Hoedus, stans in tecto domus, lupopraetereunti 
maledixit. Cui lupus, " Non tu," inquit, "sed tectum mihi male- 

Saepe locus et temp us homines timidos audaces reddit. 

East Oakland, Cal. 

Dear St. Nicholas : We have taken you for four years, and I 
hope I can take you for many more. I am twelve years old, and 
have commenced to go to a public school. I like the story of " Juan 
and Juanita. " 

My brother brought home a dog the other day, and I named him 
" Amigo," after Juan and Juanita's, and he will shake hands, and 
is a great pet. 

I am living in ( * the land of flowers," and it is very beautiful and 
pleasant here. Hoping you are received with as much pleasure by 
others as you are by me, I remain your devoted reader, 

Helen L . 

15 Burns Street, Nottingham, England. 

Dear St. Nicholas : I am a little girl seven years old. Mother 
takes your magazine for me, and I like it very much. I like "Juan 
and Juanita," and the story of " Prince Fairyfoot." 

I have a little sister three and a half years old, and a big brother 
and sister. I got a prize at school last term, because I did my home 
lessons well. I had a beautiful pussy cat, but some wicked people 
poisoned it. I must close now. 

From your loving little friend, Eadie C . 

P. S. — This is the fourth year I have had you ; but Mother always 
said I was too little to write to you before. 


My Dear St. Nicholas : I thought I would write to you to tell 
you what an English sea-side place is like in winter. The trees are 
most of them green, and there are plenty of flowers blooming in open 
air. In Dartmoor, near here, there are early British and Roman 
remains — huts and circles of stones. I am an American little girl, 
and I came to England last June. I have taken your delightful 
magazine ever since 1881. I get you every month from my uncle, 
and your arrival is eagerly looked forward to. I like "Juan and 
Juanita" very much. I will close now, hoping to see my letter 
printed, so good-bye. From your affectionate reader, L. W. 

P. S. — I am twelve years old. 

Little Rock, Ark. 

Dear Old St. Nicholas : I look for your coming, my old friend, 
with the greatest impatience every month. You are more interest- 
ing every month, I think. I have just finished reading the letters in 
the Letter-box, and so I thought I would write one, too. "Juan 
and Juanita" is such a beautiful story that I generally read it the 
first. This is my first letter to you, dear friend, 

From your affectionate friend and devoted reader, Alice J. 

Piney Woods Grove, Lawtey, Fla. 

Dear St. Nicholas : I thought some of your readers would like 
to hear from one of the principal strawberry centers of Florida. 

Our home is in a town of some thirty or forty families in the 
northern part of the State. There are about eighty or ninety acres 
of strawberries in this vicinity, and we have shipped berries since 
the 22d of February. One day there were two hundred and thirty- 
two bushels went from our station to New York and Philadelphia ; 
that sounds like a " Florida fish story," but there are figures to 
prove it, and "figures don't lie." My two brothers and I think 
everything of you, St. Nicholas, and do not know how we should 
get along without you. I think " Little Lord Fauntleroy " was a 
splendid story, and I like " Juan and Juanita" very much. 

We came from Iowa nine years ago. I suppose there are very 
few of your readers who do not know what snow is like, but we 
compose part of that " few," for although I am older than the boys, 
who are twelve and ten, we were too young when we came here to 
remember anything about snow and ice. 

I am Yours truly, M. Dot S. 

Cheshire, England. 

My Dear St. Nicholas: I am writing to ask you if you could 
not give a little longer time for answering the puzzles to the'Euro- 
pean than to the American subscribers of St. Nicholas. In Eng- 
land we have to send the puzzles by the fifth of the month, and in 
America they need not be posted till the thirteenth. 

Iwas thirteen years old last Sunday, and I like St. Nicholas very 
much. "Juan and Juanita " is a very nice story. I have two rab- 
bits, and they are both black. The Prince and Princess of Wales 
came last Tuesday to open the Exhibition in Manchester, and at 
night the streets were all illuminated. I have tried the experiment 
of the match and the bottle, and it answered very well. 

I remain, ever your loving little friend, " Molly." 

Perhaps "Molly," Ida Swanwick, M. M. G., "Murial," and 
other English correspondents have never noticed that answers from 
foreign countries are frequently acknowledged in the magazine, but 
in the month following the one in which they rightly belong. Thus, 
answers to the May puzzles, from English solvers, instead of being 
acknowledged in the August number, will be acknowledged in the 
September number. Hereafter, answers which are mailed to us from 
England before the eighteenth of the month will be acknowledged 
as promptly as possible in St. Nicholas. 

Dear St. Nicholas : My mamma reads to me the letters from 
other little boys, so I would like to write you one, too. I am six 
years old. I live in Berlin this winter, but when I am home I live 
in Philadelphia. I like Berlin better because I see so many real 
soldiers here. Every day I go walking with my little brother; the 
widest street is called, " Unter den Linden," because there are so 
many linden trees on it. Some days we walk out to the park 
through the Brandenburger Thor, and go to feed the goldfish. 
Sometimes we walk to the Emperor's palace to see the big statue 
of Frederick the Great on his horse. Every day when the " watch 
parade " passes the palace, the Emperor comes to the window. I 
have seen the Emperor ever so many times ; once he bowed right 
to me and my little brother and Fraulein. Fraulein is my gov- 
erness, and she teaches me every day in German. When I came 
here I could not understand what the people said to me, but now I 
can talk German all day. Old Kriskringle brought us a real Ger- 
man Christmas-tree with lights on it ; he brought me a soldier suit 
with long trousers, and some lovely big soldiers. I would rather 
play with them than have a lesson with Fraulein. I can only make 
German letters now, so I can't write to you myself, The other day 
1 went to the circus, but it was n't as nice as Barnum's at home. I 
had a ride on the elephant at the Zoo, and we went to the " Monkey 
Theater" to see the monkeys, dogs, and goats do funny things. I 
guess I have said enough this time. 

Your loving little friend, George Morris P . 

Dear St. Nicholas : I have never written to you before. We 
are a large family (eight) ; and we have three families of cousins 
living near us ; so you may be sure we are never in want of compan- 
ions. I have one little brother Humfrey, five years old, who is not 
my real brother — he is only adopted; but we think just as much of 
him as though he was n't. We live on a large farm quite a way 
from Albany, N. Y. , and we have five dogs. 1 have a little brown 
pony named Fleetfoot, and often go horseback with my cousin Kath- 
erine. The roads here are very pleasant, as most of them lead by 
the river or through the woods. Our farm is built very near the 
river, and the back meadow opens on it. We go out rowing nearly 
every pleasant evening. I have a little rowboat named Fanchon. 
We have a tutor named Mr. Edwards ; he is very pleasant, but I do 
not like to study very well. It is tantalizing to have to sit in a close 
room studying, when everything is so pleasant out-of-doors. I think 
"Juan and Juanita" is a splendid story. I like stories of adventure 
best. My sister Anna likes home-stories better than any, for our 
tastes are very different. 

Your faithful reader, Agnes B . 

Brussels, Belgium. 

Dear St. Nicholas : As I never saw a letter from Belgium in 
your Letter-box, I write you one. 

I am a little boy of nine years old who lives in Brussels, but was 
born in Florence. I have two sisters: one is called Jacqueline Clem- 
ence, and the other Daisy. 

Since October, 1886, we receive your paper, which is sent to us by 
Madame Fish, the wife of the American minister, and we enjoy it 
very much. These are the stories we prefer: "The Brownies," 
"Juan and Juanita," " A Fortunate Opening," " Prince Fairyfoot," 
and "Jenny's Boarding-house." I could write a better letter in 
French if you would like. I remain 

Your constant reader, Julio V . 

i88 7 .] 



We print this interesting account of the effects of a cyclone, — 
just as it was written. 

Stevens Point, Wis., Mar. 22, 1887. 

Dear St. Nicholas I think I have something to tell you that 
will interest some of your readers. When I was in Rochester, Minn., 
I saw a cyclone, and I think it was quite a sight. I did not see it 
in the evening when it happened, but I saw it the next morning. 
Some of the houses were blown into such fragments that you would 
have thought they were as small as the smallest tree. There were so 
many people crushed and mangled that they had to turn a hotel into 
a hospital. In some places the houses were not touched, and across 
the street may be the house would be all gone. There were chickens 
without any feathers on their backs, and where there had been gar- 
dens, the ground looked as if it had been burnt. I saw one house 
where the side had been blown right off, and there was a look- 
ing-glass on the wall and a stove and a chair sitting up just as 
straight as if it had not been moved. On the main street there was 
rolls of tin from the roofs of the stores as large as a small cottage. 
T guess I have told you about all I can remember. So I will close. 
I remain, Yours lovingly, Edna M. G. 

To St. Nicholas: 

St. Nicholas, I love you 
With all my heart, 

And I hope that you and I 
Will never part. 

We present our thanks for pleasant letters received from the young 
friends whose names we give herewith : Elliot H. S., Ruth C, Ger- 

trude L. Adams, Helen A. B., Juanita and Gavina, Roland S. T., 
Rebecca Larcombe, Theo. G. A., Charlie M. B., Mary N. Wilson, 
" Fannie Fern," Edith G. P., Nellie C., Helen, Edith S. Bridgman, 
Elsie Davenport, Genevieve Du Val, Billy Miller, Freddie Kyser, 
Allmand, McK, G., Dora and Constance Iris, Bennie W. and John- 
nie McD., Walter Coleman, M. C. T., Cecelia L., G. F. Dashiell, 
Marie C. M., " Wicky," Be be, Maud Huston, Ethel Carson, Mabel 
Stevens Frost, Grace Norton, Edith M. Parks, N. Fairbanks, Willie 
E. Vernon, Violet C, Bessie W., Emma Drake, Carrie A., R. C. H., 
Bessie Ketchum, Gracie L. Dugan, May G., May C. Morton, Ellen 
G. Barbour, Alice Carey, Jr., Frank C. V., Minnie S., Adele, Belle 
Bentley, Gracie R., Ralph R., Begien, H. S., Mary, Susie, Jane C, 
Myla Coburn, G. B. and K. M., Waldo Burton, Anna T. Mead, 
Louise Hoge, M. B. G., Ellen S., Frank B. B., Edith H. Smalley, 
Walton F. Weed, Marion M., Fanny and Mary, Zuzie Evans, J. D. 
K., M. O., Daisy K., Marian E. Mason, Madge L. C, Loraine 
Lawton, Jerome D. Greene, Hattie F. E., Annie C. S., Louis 
Joseph Vance, Bessie B. Taylor, Maud McC, Helen L. Kellogg, 
E. P. Mason, Harrington Barlow, Rita W. B., C. M. M., Freddie 
D. Jones, M. C. E., Katie F. Millet, Grace A. Higley, Pearl, Edith 
G. Baker, C. W. T., Fannie J. R., Paul Alden, Agnes Ward, 
Julia, Clara V. J. Frayne, " Little Tycoon," Violet, Allison Hings- 
ton, Harry, Julia, and Minnie Baer, Mary Ann, Frank W., Egbert, 
Gracie, Nellie, Mone, Baby, Willard, Amy B., E. B. F., Fairfax 
Jenkins, Emily R., Peggy M., Jack, Bertha Meyer, Willie Baer, 
Olga Chase, Ella R., Clare, and Mary Louise Waite. 




This month concludes the list of solvers of the " King's Move Puzzle," which was printed in the January number of St. Nicholas. 
One of the pleasantcst features of this puzzle was the delightful little letters which, in many cases, accompanied solutions. Some begged 
that St. Nicholas would " print more puzzles like this one." Well, St. Nicholas has others of the same sort on hand, and they will be 
printed in due season. 

As a rule, the names of the poets were beautifully arranged, in alphabetical order, and numbered. Some gave the name of a poem by 
each author, others divided the names according to the nationality of the poets, and still others wrote them down in chronological order. 
One friend sent a note numbered as follows, which, by the help of the January diagram, our puzzlers may spell out for themselves. 

29-39-28-18 73-83-93-84 31-21 38 26-27-16-6 79-S9-S0. 73-63 20-9 89-79 41-31-42-53-63 95-84-74-63-64-65 63-62 26- 
=5-36-56-46-55-66 46-35 63-53-64 67-58-4S-47-56. 

In conclusion, we present to our readers a list of " authorities used for obtaining my list," which an enterprising friend consulted ; and 
the industrious compiler found her name very near to the head of the roll. 

1. Coates' "Fireside Encyclopaedia of Poetry." 2. Gostwick and Harrison's "Outlines of German Literature." 3. Cleveland's 
"Compendium of English Literature." 4. Putnam's "The Best Reading." 5. Thomas's" Biographical Dictionary." 6. Allibone's 
" Dictionary of Authors. " 7. Griswold's " Sacred Poets of England and America. " 8. May's " American Female Poets." 9. Bartlett's 
" Familiar Quotations." 10. " Index to Harper's Magazine." n. Drake's " Dictionary of American Biography." 12. Chambers's " Cyclo- 
paedia of English Literature." r3. Duyckinck's " Cyclopaedia of American Literature." 14. Gates's " Dictionary of General Biography." 
15. Hoyt and Ward's " Cyclopaedia of Practical Quotations." 16. Putnam's " The World's Progress." 17. Hart's " American Litera- 
ture." 18. Crowell's " Red-Letter Poems." 19. Volumes of St. Nicholas. 

45. (Concluded.) Eleanor, Maude, Louise, S. Platts, S. F. Gleason, M. A. P., R. A. S. Kelly, J. A. Wheatcroft, "8530," E. Pelly, 
Bertie and Nanno, E. F. Edwards, F. H. Brewin, Gussie, M. E. G., A. M. Dudard, M. Cleveland and M. A. Blair, Mabel, Eva, and 
Nell, G. Winter, " Al. G. Bra," R. H. Charlier, Peggy and Co., W. N. Timmins. A. and O. Warburg, M. N. Young, D. M. Cleive, F. 
Wehle, E. Digby, D. L. N., Fred Seaman, Lucy E. G., F. Taylor, N. L. Denis, M. A. Russel, V. Black, R. N. Tower, Elizabeth B. F., 
H. L. Wyman, Mary L M. and Rena E. M., C. B. Bishop, Jr., S. H. C, S. R. Townie, L. Carlisle, G. W. F., S. E. Ellett, R. E. 
Swinnerton, R. E. Hall, " Mouse," H. Allen, Jr., M. and A. Gray. " U. and I.," " Kitten," M. C. M., J. M. B., Lucy E. C. D., M. 
G. M., Helen M. D., L. T. W. and A. B. C, G. Smith, I. Dorsey, V. D. Smith, Henry H. W., Hazel. O. N. Wehle, M. P. Warner, H. 
G. M., J. E. Esslemont, E. Drake, G. Cool, B. Sims, M. A. Hale, A. and J. Inness, J. Landon, H. S. Paine, C. L. Brown, Muriel. E. 
R. Londstreth, L. Stone, Rosaline, M. B. N., E. Dembitz, J., G.. and V. Longley. L. Cheney, N. Fritz, J. C. Rittenhouse, H. B. Lee, 
J. G. Everett, L. Elms, J. T. P., J. W. Eraser, R. D. Stephens, H. Requa, A. M. Welch, H. A. Hughes, J. E. Shaw, E. C. Allen, M. 
E. Snibbets, E. H. Francis, J. Perry, Stella G., Lillian M., F. Harrup, E. R. Bullock, M. G. Calvert, K. Barron, I. Jennings, M. Napier, 

E. L. Bensusan, W. L. Odell, "Lollipop," G. Jocelvn, H. P. Nash, " Johnny Jumpup," A. S. W., V. Stillman, C. H. S. and E. M. S., 
S. B. M., E. L. Springer, M. Padget, A Wilbur, C. E. Johnston. "Three Blind Mice," F. B. Foster, L. G. Archbald. N. Hamblin. 
G. Threewit, " Omnes, "EllaW., L. Fulton, R. E. Braden, M. Harlow, G. Mourraille, Nina S.,C. G. Ackley, M. and E. Magrath, C. L. D., 

B. Jewell, E. R. Cross, S. M. and H. Donnelsen, N. Baker, " Ransom," W. Thompson, " Lincoln," " Tura," E. K. Nott, A. Day, M. 
Jacks, "Rex and Flipp," M. Trowbridge. G. De Bruler. R. C. Smith, L. M. Dressor, E. and B. Frost, Mrs. M. F. Dana, E. Davis, A. 
M. Dake, Lulu, " One of the Boys," Leonora R., P. Smith, W. H. Bedford, F. L. Smith, H. Mather, B. S. Hodson, M. La Fetra, E. B. 
Rodman, W. Johnson, Alice C. Glanbill, B. Taylor, H. H. Burr, J. B. and B. E., L. Martindale. We. Us, and Co., A. M. Marsh, G. and 
D. Willoughby, C. A. Mortimer, R. Markey, J. R. Guild, D. S. Campbell and W. Parker, A. F. Greenbaum, C. Lowe, L. R. Yeaman, 

C. P. Stewart, E. Macdougall, M. W. Eutz, C. P. Hollis, M. Bennett, Two Cousins, E. S. Askren. E. Glenn, M. L. Squier, K. I. Arnold, 
M. N. Wilder, " Carmen," J. R. Allen, H. Sheffield. H. E. Horrocks, "Mae," I. H. Reynolds, L. F. Chase, C. W. Hutchinson, L. M. 
Morse, S. Henderson, G. C. Henry, K. Anderson, W. E. Bailey, Frank W. S., R. F. Jackson, P. B. Bradford, C. A. I., B. Hathaway. 
I. C. M. B., L. Jones. L. Van Wert, R. Webster, M. S. Scudder, E. Blanc. J. R. Frailey, A. Wilkins, C. H. S., E. D. Denison, M. and 
R. Russell, B. Nims, M. C. Johnston, A. Tidd, H. St. John, J. F. Gorke, " The Three M's.," H. B. Hawes. A. B. Butler, C. L. Craw- 
ford, M. B. Goozee, N. B. Warfield, "Ping Wing," G. R. D., E. S. Packard, Z. Farrar, E. Lidgerwood. A. M. Wildie, M. C. Wilson, 
B. Hall, Kittie L. M., R. S. Vinal, B. W. Sweet. 

Less than 45. N. W. E., B. Baker, C. Patterson, F. N. Knight, H. S. Husted, M. W. R., E. E. C. and E. S. C, M. L. Witt- 
kowski, H. G. G., N. and M. Ludlow, M. Badine, E. Clark, M. R. S. and L. H. R., T. Straus, B. G. Davis, G. O'Brien, H. E. Brown, 
B. Beekman, F. O'Boyle. C. A. Libbev, H. O., A. J. Slade, L. L. Stevens. "Topsy," J. M. Isaacs, E. C. Knight, J. G. M. Stone, G. F. 
and W. B. Greene. L. Cook, H. M. Stone, M. E. Pierce, C. McGillivray, H. G. Wild, P. H., " The Cottage," R. B. Levy, F. C. H. and 
M. H. H., R. C. Gorhen. R. Huntington, H. W. and A. E. Saxe, W. B. G. Fox. J. Hirschmann, G. Sturdevant, " Y. D. Wake," C. Mil- 
ligan and H. Couch, C. H. N., C. E. Squire, N. F. Rae. C. Robinson, Daisy, M. Astheimer, A. A., " Orris Root," L. H. W.. J. A. T., 
G. Head, H.Saber, L. L. and E. Howell, N. Clarke, I. S. Adams. L. A. D., P. Gardner, A. Weber, B. Webb, M. Bowen, H. C. Barnes, 
" Voltimand," C. A. Hays, J. S. Doar, E. Sander, C. Morton, Philip G., Rose, D. S. Taber, Jr., R.J^. Cumming, I. Chapman, "Dyna- 
mite," M. H. Nase, B. Burch, E. Witner, E. V. Huntington, H. C. F., M. A Fletcher, "White Rose," M. Cook, "Maid Marjory," Lill 
and I, E. A. W., C. Hale. H. A. Truslow, S. W. Walker, W. S. Prout, C. Bender, C. F., "Al Kohol," E. Thomas, M. Suman, W. R. 
Varick, "Dolly," Mrs. J. Snyder, S. B. Jamieson, E. R. W. Brooks, G. G. Lord, " Colson," F. Marquis, B. L. Montanye, J. F. Mat- 
thews, D. V. Meade. " Kuth," B. O'H.-, Zip, B. H. Peale, I. Reeve, A. W. Barnes. B. De Blois. "Lynn C. Doyle," A. Black, fl. L. 
Engle, M. N. E., P. E. Taussig, N. P. H., " Caps," A. Walsh, " Moss Rose," O. D. Coldewev, E. P. Lewis, E. M. Downs, " Elizabeth. 
N. J.," F. Thompson, Marv and Martha, H. Patterson, J. G. Carruthers. W. W. A., Phoebe'J., G. and A. Galloway, D. and A., Old 
Subscriber. L. T. Saunders, I. Tefft, H. J. Cleveland, A. Diven, L. M. Page, Jessy Wakem, "Terrus," M. V. Bent, D. L. Crane, D. De 
Lay, B. Downing, Dash, " Fundodge," H. W. Spaulding, G. H. Chadwick, L Howell, J. R. Goodrich, B. Ross, L. M. Hadley, F. Hol- 
man, Lewis S. Hachulan, M. Grav, " K. McGlinty," "Jefferson School, Grade 8," J. M. M., M. Knox, W. R. Lambert. F. B. Dearing, 

B. Spaulding, E. F. Ford, B. W. Hendrick, F. A. Wendehack, N. J. Neall. ]. H. Laycock, C. W. Carnes, S. F. Patterson, Edward H. L., 

C. L. Hepbrow, M. E. Deering, " Kib," E. Daval, Walter B., V. Hewling, M. Bain, W. W. Hill, G. S. Miller, W. W. Lauterman, 
" Bupsi," "Jo. Crow," " Heetie," May B., N. Wells, "Juan and Juanita," F. Stokes, E. E. P., A. A. McFarlane, A. J. Parker, 
Mabel D., E. Haldt, C. T. Mueller, R. B. Smith, Mrs. G. C. Sibley, A. A. Hickox, J. L., E. V. S., A. M. Tullle, Bert. L. Lichtenstein, 
J. H. Adams, Mag J., "Atossa," M. C. Davis, C. Bredt, A. I. Rodriguez. E. O. Maguire, S. A. Lake, M. Neubtirger, B. H. Wood- 
ward, E. V. A., Florence L., J. E. McDowell, Estill and Frank, A. Breckand S. LinneyrC. L. Smith. K. Newby, E. B. Morton, J. K. B., 
"Two Little Maids." E. Cheny. E. B. Ovens, N. Davis, M. Hinshelwood, Ida G., Misses Owen, A. H. Toll, I. McC, F. McGibney, 
I. Harter, L. Shoenberger, M. I. Farear, G. B. Weston, E. Harland, M. Purinton, M. Thorn, A. J. Porter, F. P. Wood, J. P. Sylvester, 
J. I. Swaine. M. Benjamin, E. G. Sutliff, M. C. Callender, R. B. C, B. Rich, R. Cully, Gertrude, J. F. Payne, N. Taylor, Lizzie L., 
C. Rosalie M , L. F. Tallman, M. Garceau. E. Stivers, C. Dixon, H. Gillian, "Toots," " Papa and Mamma," J. B. L. Grout, F. Tom- 
bleson, L. Siedler, Pug, F. Heath, " Slim Jim," W. P. Hopkins, M. J. Heckman, L. Bradshaw, J. A., M. H. Gorton. F. White. J. E. 
Jones, M. and J. Jones, M. Jacalsen, A. Nock, B. Wheeler, K. E. E., G. E. Clark, R. Byington, S. A. F., Jr., Pernie, M. H. P., 
Z. and W. Esmond, L. M. Lee, G. Sheriden, M. Montgomery, H. L. Stoddard, N. R. Page, " Kilkare," Edith G., L. McDougall, L. M. 
Faries, E. and S. Fickling, H. S. Packard. " Feodor," M. Doty, F. Wheeler, S. E. H., A. Town, E. G. Quinism, N. Hurd. A. B. Will- 
iams, W. L. E., F. M. Jones, H. A. Southgate, "Wabasha," D. Donnelley, C. M. Summy, A. Weber, A. Adams, C. H. and M. Condit, 

F. M. Josselyn, R. E. Dorland, J. Glostcr, J. Hemphill, J. B. Sheffield, " Hildegarde," D. Bennett, G. M. Wagner. K. F. T., W. H. 
Beyerle, S. E. A., A. E, Fraser, Brother and Sister, B. W. Percival, B. G. Scott, M. W. Bonnett, L. Middleton, C. H. Ward, S. Munson, 
Edward J. B., A. E. Spafford, E. C. Kupp, V. Eckert, I. and L. Merrell, E. Baere, E. and F. Sheen, P. C. Wilson, E. B. Dalton, 
" Rob Roy MacLeod." 






St. Andrew's Cross of Diamonds. I. 1. M. 2. Bad. 3. 
Bodes. 4. Madrier. 5. Deist. 6. Set. 7. R. II. 1. R. 2. Sum. 

3. Subur(b). 4. Rubific. 5. Muffs. 6. Ris (k). 7. C. III. 1. R. 
2. Tom. 3. Toper. 4. Ropalic. 5. Melam. 6. Rim. 7. C. IV. 

1. R. 2. Tom. 3. Tudor. 4. Roderic. 5. Moral 6. Ril (1). 
7. C. V. 1. C. 2. Mug. 3. Moras (s). 4. Curvity. 5. Gaily. 
6. Sty. 7. Y. 

Easy Beheadings. Beecher. 1. B-lend. 2. E-vent. 3. E-mend. 

4. C-lean. 5. H-omer. 6. E-lope. 7. R-over. 

Hour-glass. Centrals, associate. Cross-words: 1. Mendacity. 

2. Mission. 3. Aisle. 4. Rob. 5. C. 6. Aim. 7. Alarm. 8. Beat- 
ing. 9. Burlesque. 

Diamond, i. M. 2. Tab. 3. Tires. 4. Marplot. 5. Belie. 

6. Soe. 7. T. 

Peculiar Diagonals. Diagonals, Memorial Day and Heroes' 
deed. Cross-words: 1. Megatherium. 2. Heptahedron. 3. Re- 
monstrant. 4. Strongholds. 5. Preordained. 6. Outweighing. 

7. Labor-saving. 8. Husbandless. 9. Unfeignedly. 10. Mixtilin- 
eal. 11. Tragicomedy. 

Cube, From 1 to 2, Coventry ; 2 to 4, yataghan ; 3 to 4, moni- 
tion ; 1 to 3, cardamom ; 5 to 6, mandolin ; 6 to 8, nicotine ; 7 to 8, 
loricate ; 5 to 7, memorial ; 1 to 5, calm ; 2 to 6, yarn ; 4 to 8, nine ; 
3 to 7, mail. 

Illustrated Puzzle. Midsummer eve. Cross-words. 1. caM- 
era. 2. trlton. 3. saDdle. 4. peStle. 5. crUets. 6. haMmer. 
7. toMtit. 8. stEeds. 9. moRtar. 10. crEels. 11. raVens. 12. 

Double Rhomboid. I. Across: 1. Stop. 2. Door. 
4. Font. II. Across: 1. Stop. 2. Oral. 3. Brag. 
Cross-word Enigma. Lobster. 
Numerical Enigma. 

" And what is so rare as a day in June ? 
Then, if ever, come perfect days ; 
Then heaven tries the earth if it be in tune, 
And over it softly her warm ear lays." 
— "The Vision 0/ Sir Launfal," by James Russell Lowell. 
Word Syncopations, i. Ap-peal-ing. 2. A-bode-s. 3. Cl-asp- 
ing. 4. H-eight-en. 5. Fl-out-ing. 6. Sh-ear-ed. 

3. Port. 

To our Puzzlers : Answers, to be acknowledged in the magazine, must be received not later than the 15th of each month, and should 
be addressed to St. Nicholas " Riddle-box," care of The Century Co., 33 East Seventeenth St., New York City. 

Answers to all the Puzzles in the April Number were received, before April 15, from Maud E. Palmer — Gertrude Kupfer — 
Mary Ludlow — A. H. and M. G. R.— Maggie T. Turrill— Mamma, C. and M.— Mabel and Christine — W. E. Goodyear— Winne D. 
Booth — "Anglo-Saxon" — Paul Reese — Russell Davis — " Professor and Co." — Mabel Shepard — Effie K. Talboys — "Three Blind 
Mice" — " San Anselmo Valley " — Sadie Mabelle Shuman — M. E. d'A. — " Blithedale " — Annette Fiske and Co. — Nellie and Reggie — 
Francis W. Islip — " Solomon Quill " — " Chee-Wing " — R. H. and P. M. — " George and Miss Muffet " — " Nickname " — " Rob Roy." 

Answers to Puzzles in the April Number were received, before April 15, from Marion P. Dumont, 1 — S. C. N.,2 — Have- 
meyer Street, 1 — C. G. M., 1 — "Tad," 1— J. W. H., 1— M. L. K., 1 —Jessie and Nellie M., 1 — Louis E. Bailey, 1 — E. D. L., 1 — 
Julia P. Ballard, 8 — E. F. and F. E. Bliss, 1 — Percy H. and Josie S., 2 — " Mamma and Papa," 1 — " Dick," 1 — C. N.Kent, Jr., 1 — 
Walter Irvine, 1 — A. B., 3 — C. J. D. t 7— F. H. S. and L. A. S., 1— "Three Sisters," 1 — P. A., 1 — Mary A. Granger, 1— Alice 
L. ( 4 — Henriette Orr, 1 — Mac, 2 — Helen Fisher, 1 — Jamie and Mamma, 8 — I. Boskowitz, 2 — " Ikey, Finney, and Duddy," 1 — 
L. A. H., 1 — " Heathen," 1 — M. Flurscheim, 2 — Ellie and Susie, 6 — "49," 1 — " Crystal," 7 — " I Ml Try," 1 — May A. B., 1 — " Ray 
and Maidy," 2 — Emma St. C. Whitnev, 6 — " Lehte and Nellie Bly," 1 — " Columbus Riddle Club," 1 — " Marjory Daw," 1 — " Nanki 
Poo," 1 — "Adivinador," 6 — B., R., and N., 1 — C. F. M., 6 — C. N. R.,i — F. A. F., 1 — " Yellow Kitten, "4— B. A. C, 1 — 
Lou Henry, 2— "Puss," 1 — S. B. S., 2— George Siball, 2— Alona, 2— Will R., 7— Nell R., 6 — H. A. R., 7 — " May and 79," 8 — 
" The Cottage," 5 — " Nip and Tuck," 3 — " Junior," 1 — L. T. E., 1 - — Ruby and Pearl, 3 — "Niagara," 6 — " Goose," 1 — " Livy," 2 — 
"Nellie Bly," 7 — M. G., 1 — " Mrs. Leeks and Mrs. Aleshine," 5— M. O., 1 — E. M. Benedict, 1 — Lehte, 6 — Eleanor and Maude 
Peart, 3 — "Jack Spratt," 4 — "Family of Three," 4 — "Punch and Judy," 7 — "Family Kid." 7 — Dorothy Clive, 2 — " Scotia," 2 — 
L. C. B., 8 — " Fox and Geese," 5 — H. D., 6 — " Friends," 6 — lo and I, 7 — " Do do," 1 — " Chestnuts," 5 — " Lock and Key," 2 — 
Keokuk, la., 3 — Arthur G. Lewis, 5 — Percy A. R. Varian, 3 — C. P. Hoppin, 1 — Susie Vaughn, 1 — Jerome Fargo Fish, 1 — "Tat," 2 — 
" Ruddygore," 1 — Neddie Emerson, 1. 


1. A girl's name. 2. To give an appellation to. 3. A Turkish 
title of dignity. 4. Naught. hervey darneal. 


I. Upper Square: i. A reality. 2. A plant which grows in 
warm countries. 3. Lethargy. 4. A water-fowl. 

II. Left-hand Square: i. A military station. 2. A hautboy. 
3. An ecclesiastical court of Rome. 4. A water-fowl. 

III. Central Square: i. A water-fowl. 2. A river of Spain. 
3. An inhabitant of a certain Asiatic country. 4. Part of the ear. 

IV. Right-hand Square: i. Part of the ear. 2. Elliptical. 
3. Impedes. 4. Otherwise. 

V. Lower Square: i. Part of the ear. 2. Found in every 
kitchen. 3. A small globular body. 4. Concludes. nell r. 

other, in the order here given, the first five initial letters will spell 
worthless matter; the last five letters, the name of a bird. The nine 
initial letters will also spell the name of a bird. 

The first five final letters will spell to bury ; the last five letters, 
pauses. The nine final letters will spell concerns. f. s. f. 


1. Behead an effigy, and leave an old word meaning a magician. 
2. Behead in no degree, and leave continually. 3. Behead those 
who are much beloved, and leave part of a dish. 4. Behead to eat 
away, and leave was conveyed. 5. Behead round, and leave a 
small mass of matter of no definite shape. 6 Behead to rub or 
scrape out, and leave to overthrow. 7. Behead the lining of certain 
shells, and leave a piece of land. 8 Behead terror, and leave 
to peruse. 9. Behead to correct, and leave to reform. 10. Behead 
the present occasion, and leave formerly. 11. Behead to hide, and 
leave above. 12. Behead circumstance, and leave escape. 

The beheaded letters will spell a word meaning the direction of 
one's own affairs without interference. L. H. L. and d. m. 



Cross-words (of equal length) : 1. Methods of computation. 2. 
A barbed spear generally thrown by hand. 3. A little ring. 4. 
Hooked or bent like a sickle. 5. To agitate. 6. To repeat a second 
time. 7. To puzzle. 8. A water-pipe. 9. Dreadful to look upon. 

When these words are rightly guessed and ranged one below the 

Across: i. The sacred book of the Mohammedans. 2. A sub- 
stance which will produce fermentation. 3. Thrashed with a walk- 
ing-stick. 4. From side to side. 5. A color. 6. If. 7. In triangle. 

" rose madder." 





All of the ten objects may be described by words of equal length. When these have been rightly guessed, and placed one below 
the other, one of the perpendicular rows of letters will spell the name of a famous battle fought in July. 


Left-hand Diamond : i. In crumbs. 2. To furnish with strength 
for action. 3. Pertaining to a wall. 4. A quadruped of the reindeer 
kind. 5. Pulverized sugar-candy. 6. Fortune. 7. In crumbs. 

Right-hand Diamond: i. In crumbs. 2. Portion. 3. The 
Christian name of a lady whose name has been made famous through 
the sonnets or" an Italian poet. 4. A dressing-room. 5. To run about. 
6. To be sick. 7. In crumbs. " myrtle green." 

where a famous battle was fought in 1862. My 111-56-30-153-26 is 
a vagrant. My 47-3 3-3-69-1 15 may be found on every breakfast 
table. My 19—98-155-102 means a cipher. My 39-1 09-144-1 31-120 
is value. My 150-136-58-117-49 is a view. My 28-143-16-83-89- 
24-42 is gigantic. My 92-79-66-137 is a very thin skin. My 82-113- 
86-100-1-130-55^-60-5^ is of one mind. My 107-44-141-74-22-101 
is sagacious. My 62-8-76-5 is a beautiful animal seen by St. Hubert 
in a vision. My 116-25-93-156-34-7-121-97-133-70-48 is menacing. 
My 146-13-31-21-14-151 is to pet. My 9-68-91-104-126-99-29- 
M9-73-27-4-75 is noisy. My 57-84-135-2-138-152-112-61-5915 
giggling. My 67-124-23-11-80-145 is a broad piece of defensive 
armor carried on the arm. My 103-36-50-40-90-38 is a general 
scarcity of food. My 52-142-106-71-119 is fleet. My 10-122-37- 
125 is to portend. My 46-94-114 is grief. My 63-147-96-110 is a 
benefaction. My 15-S5-154-108-132 is a man mentioned in the 
Bible who "walked with God." My 127-140-129-78 is pabulum. 
My 43-54-SS-1 7-32-65-20 is part of a spinning-wheel. 



1. One of the Great Antilles. 2. One of the Shetland Islands. 
3. The largest island in the world. 4. A group of islands in the 
Indian Ocean. 5. An island group in the South Atlantic Ocean. 
6. The island prison of a great general. 7. The site of the fifth 
wonder of the world. 8. Two islands of the Arctic Ocean which are 
separated by a very narrow strait. 9. One of the British West 
Indies. 10. A large island in the Atlantic Ocean. 11. A British 
West Indian island. 12. One of the Aukland Islands. 13. An 
island on the east coast of Africa. 

The initial letters of each of the islands described will spell the 
name of an island which is supposed to be the scene of a very famous 
story. Julian. 


The letters composing each of the eight following words may be 
transposed so as to form another word. Example : pears, spare. 

1. Analogist. 

2. Treason. 

3. Hangings. 

4. Pursuer. 

5. Imprecates. 

6. Stagnation. 

7. Stipulated. 

8. Enumerations. "aunt sue." 


I am composed of one hundred and fifty-six letters, and I show 
what John Adams considered a proper way to celebrate the Fourth 
of July. 

My 95-45-77-12-123-64-35 is an enormity. My 139-128-18-87- 
41-51-148 is a small pancake. My 134-105-72-81-118-6 is a place 


I. Upper Left-hand Diamond : 1. In barrel. 2. An abbrevia- 
tion meaning "place of the seal." 3. A meadow. 4. An animal. 

5. A boy's nickname. 6. A verb. 7. In barrel. 

II. Upper Right-hand Diamond : 1. In barrel. 2. An excla- 
mation. 3. A biblical character. 4. Ratio. 5. Consumed. 6. A 
pronoun. 7. In barrel. 

III. Central Diamond: i. In barrel. 2. Mother. 3. Three- 
fifths of a word meaning to imitate. 4. A cereal. 5. A unit. 6. A 
pronoun. 7. In barrel. 

IV. Lower Left-hand Diamond: 
of a quick stroke. 3. An engine of war. 

6. A pronoun. 7. In barrel. 

V. Lower Right-hand Diamond: 
nickname. 3. Evening. 4. Depravity, 
measure. 7. In barrel. 

In barrel. 2. Two-thirds 
4. Uncommon. 5. A verb. 

1. In barrel. 2. A boy's 
5. Vague. 6. A printer's 
" h. and hebe." 


"ECH-O !" 



Vol. XIV. AUGUST, 1887. No. 10. 

[Copyright, 1887, by The CENTURY CO.] 


By Edith M. Thomas. 

Two of us among the daisies 

In the meadow bright and still, — 
You, alone among the mazes 
Of the dark trees on the hill ; 
O sweet Echo, 
O fleet Echo, 
Can we not o'ertake you, following with a will ? 

[Ah, Will!] 

'T is my name — but much I wonder 

That you in your hiding-place, 
On the shady hill or under, 
Things you never knew can trace ! 
Declare, mocker, 
O rare mocker, 
What my sister's name is, else you 're in disgrace! 

[Is Grace /] 

What sweet things do you resemble, — 

Morning dewdrops, starry gleams, 
Flowers that in the light wind tremble, 
Beckonings of the rippled streams? 
O dear playmate, 
Come near, playmate ; 
Are these fancies true, or naught at all but dreams? 

[But dreams /] 

Then come down and let us see you; 

If you can not come to stay, 
Ask the stern old hill to free you 
Just for half a holiday. 
O glad Echo, 
O sad Echo, 
To escape your prison can you find no way ? 

[A'o way/] 





By William H. Rideing. 

Ihere is a pleasant little 
house in Beacon Street, 
Boston, which is occu- 
pied by a gentleman 
who has written some 
books which have made 
his name famous wher- 
ever the English lan- 
guage is spoken, and 
also in many other coun- 
tries into the language of which they have been 
translated. As he goes along the streets of the 
town, with a friendly, observant eye, which has a 
bird-like quickness, people sometimes whisper — 
those who are unmannered point at him — and 
say, " See the autocrat ! " 

He is probably referred to thus as often as by 
his proper name, and this is because one of his 
books is called "The Autocrat of the Breakfast 
Table," a volume full of wisdom and humor, 
which on one page moves us to tears, and in 
the next sets us shaking with laughter. He is a 
rather slender gentleman, with white hair, though 
no one would guess him to be seventy- five years old, 
and the wavy white hair on his head is matched by 
white side-whiskers of an English cut. He is not 
distinctly a writer for the young : writing of any 
kind has not been the business of his life, indeed ; 
and aside from it he has made himself famous in 
the medical profession. But there are few boys or 
girls who, though they may not have read " The 
Autocrat of the Breakfast Table " all through, 
do not know by heart " The Chambered Nautilus," 
and the story of the deacon's " One-hoss Shay." 

" Have you heard of the wonderful one-hoss shay 
That was built in such a logical way ? 
It ran a hundred years to a day, 
And then, of a sudden, it — ah, but stay. 
I '11 tell you what happened without delay, 
Scaring the parson into fits, 
Frightening people out of their wits — 
Have you heard of that, I say ? " 

It is Dr. Oliver Wendell Holmes I am speaking 
about, one of the two survivors of that splendid 
period of American literature which gave us 
Longfellow, Motley, Emerson, and Lowell. 

The doctor's study in the house in Beacon 
Street looks out over the Charles River, and it is 
a question whether the view from the windows is 
more beautiful at night when the electric lights on 
the bridge cast their reflections on the water like 

javelins of glittering silver, or in the day, when the 
gray stream flowing to the sea, and the spires and 
towers of Cambridge, with the green hills of Ar- 
lington and Belmont beyond, are visible. It is at 
all times a view of which Boston people are very 
proud ; and, aside from its beauty, it has the added 
interest to the doctor of encompassing nearly all 
the scenes of his youth, and of his manhood, 

He was born at Cambridge, and went to school 
at Cambridgeport, and both of those places are 
in sight from his windows; all his past is unfolded 
there, and when he turns from the book or manu- 
script on his desk, — near which hangs the portrait 
of his renowned ancestress, "Dorothy Q.," — he can 
see the paths his feet have followed since the 
beginning of his life. 

He can see himself at various ages : the urchin 
straggling to school, through fields which are green 
only in the memory now ; the Harvard student ; 
and then, in one person, the college professor and 
the famous author. No doubt he finds it hard to 
believe that the urchin was not another fellow 
altogether, instead of the self-same sapling that he 
himself once was; but, though the identity is con- 
fusing, he can remember the boy well, and all his 
queer fancies, amusements, and chums. 

A moderately studious boy he was, fond of read- 
ing stories, especially "The Arabian Nights"; fond 
of whispering and whittling, as his desk showed; 
a little mischievous; sound in mind and in body, 
but more than usually imaginative. " No Roman 
soothsayer," he says in one of his books, "ever 
had such a catalogue of omens as I found in the 
Sibylline leaves of my childhood. That trick of 
throwing a stone at a tree and attaching some 
mighty issue to hitting or missing, which you will 
find mentioned in one or more biographies, I well 
remember. Stepping on or over certain particular 
things — Dr. Johnson's especial weakness — I got 
the habit of at a very early age. 

"With these follies mingled sweet delusions, 
which I loved so well I would not outgrow them, 
even when it required a voluntary effort to put a 
momentary trust in them. Here is one I can not 
help telling you : 

"The firing of the great guns at the Navy-yard 
is easily heard at the place where I was born and 
lived. ' There is a ship-of-war come in,' they used 
to say when they heard them. Of course, I sup- 

* The portrait of Dr. Holmes and the quotations from his poems presented in this article are included by the kind permission of 

Messrs. Houghton, Mifflin & Co. 



posed that such vessels came in unexpectedly, 
after indefinite years of absence — suddenly as fallen 
stones, — and that the great guns roared in their 
astonishment and delight at the sight of the old 
war-ship splitting the bay with her cutwater. Now 
the sloop-of-war, the Wasp, Captain Blakely, after 
gloriously capturing the Reindeer and the Avon, 
had disappeared from the face of the ocean, and 
was supposed to be lost. But there was no proof 
of it, and, of course, for a time, hopes were enter- 
tained that she might be heard from. Long after 
the last chance had utterly vanished, I pleased 
myself with the fond illusion that somewhere on 
the waste of waters she was still floating, and there 
were years during which I never heard the sound 
of the great guns booming inland from the Navy- 
yard without saying to myself, ' The Wasp has 
come ! ' and almost thinking I could see her, as 
she rolled in, crumpling the water before her, 
weather-beaten, barnacled, with shattered spars 
and thread-bare canvas, welcomed by the shouts 
and tears of thousands. 

unspoken words have articulated themselves in the 
mind's dumb whisper, ' The Wasp has come ! ' " 

Dr. Holmes was born on the 29th of August, 
1809, and one of the earliest things he can remem- 
ber is giving three cheers for the close of the war 
of 1812. L'ntil about two years ago, when it was 
pulled down, his birthplace stood on the edge of 
the college grounds at Cambridge, and the old 
" gambrel-roofed " house was one of the sights of 
the town which visitors seldom missed. 

" ' Gambrel ! Gambre) ! ' — Let mc beg 
You '11 look at a horse's hinder leg, — 
First great angle above the hoof, — 
That 's the gambrel: hence gambrel-roof." 

It had been the headquarters of the American 
army during the siege of Boston, and when Oliver 
Wendell was born it was the parsonage of his 
father, who was pastor of the First Church. A 
rambling, roomy old house it was, with untenanted 
upper chambers that were always locked, and a 
garret where strange noises could be heard,. — the 
very place, in the imagination of a little boy, for 

"This was one of the dreams that I nursed and 
never told. Let me make a clean breast of it now, 
and say, that so late as to have outgrown child- 
hood, perhaps to have got far on to manhood, 
when the roar of the cannon has struck suddenly 
on my ear, I have started with a thrill of vague 
expectation and tremulous delight, and the long 

ghosts and creatures from fairy-land. Then there 
was a dark store-room, and peeping through the 
keyhole he could see heaps of chairs and tables, and 
he fancied that somehow they had rushed in there 
frightened, and had huddled together and climbed 
upon one another's backs for protection. Some- 
times he thought he could hear the swords and 




spurs of soldiers clanking in the passages ; and the 
floor of his father's study was covered with dents 
left by the butts of the muskets of the armed men 
who had used it as a council-chamber. 

Upstairs there was the portrait of a lady with 
sword- thrusts through it, — marks of the Brit- 
ish officers' rapiers, — and this is the same picture 
that now hangs on the wall of the library in Beacon 

" On her hand a parrot green 

Sits nnmoving and broods serene ; 

Hold up the canvas full in view — 

Look, there 's a rent the light shines through ! 

Dark with a century's fringe of dust, 

That was a Redcoat's rapier thrust." 

Who has not heard of that picture of Dorothy 
Quincy, or, as she is familiarly called, Dorothy Q., 

the autocrat's great-grandmother? His musical 
verses have engraved it in the minds of thousands 
who never saw the picture, or even a reproduction 
of it. 

Cambridge was then a country village, and it 
was a pleasant walk through fields and lanes to the 

school in Cambridgeport, to which Oliver Wendell 
was sent when he was scarcely out of his infancy, — 
pleasant when he had company ; but he had more 
than his share of childish fancies, and on his way 
there was a great wooden hand — a glove-maker's 
sign — which used to swing and creak, and fill him 
with terror. 

" Oh, the dreadful hand ! " he says in one of his 
essays, "always hanging there ready to catch up a 
little boy who would come home to supper no 
more, nor get to bed — whose porringer would be 
laid away empty thenceforth, and his half-worn 
shoes wait until his smaller brother grew to fit 
them ! " 

Then there were encounters with the " Port- 
chucks," as the Cambridge boys called the boys of 
Cambridgeport, and any 
new article of dress was 
sure to be criticised by 
these young Philistines. 
One morning Oliver Wen- 
dell had a new hat of 
Leghorn straw. 

"Hullo, you-sir"; said a 
"Portchuck," "you know 
th' was go'n'-to-be a race 
to-morrah ? " 

"No," replied Oliver, 
innocently. " Who's go'n'- 
to-run, 'n' where 's 't go'n'- 

" Squire Mico 'n' Doc- 
tor Williams, 'round the 
brim o' your hat." 

The "Portchuck" put 
his tongue into his cheek, 
and Oliver saw that he had 
been trifled with. 

The school was kept by 
a stout old lady, called 
Dame Prentiss, who ruled 
the children with a long 
willow rod, which reached 
across the room. It was 
used for reminding rather 
than for chastising, how- 
ever, and when one rod 
gave out, the scholars had 
no hesitation in providing 
her with a new one, for 
which they themselves went 
into the fields. Now and then a ferule was the 
instrument of punishment, and on one occasion, 
when Oliver had been caught whittling his desk, 
the Dame brought it down across his hand with 
startling results : it fell into pieces as it touched 
his palm, though this was probably due to a flaw 

i88 7 .; 



in the material of the ferule rather than to 
the toughness of the boy. 

When he had outgrown petticoats, he went 
to other schools in Cambridgeport, and he 
had among his schoolmates Alfred Lee, who 
afterward became Bishop of Delaware, Mar- 
garet Fuller, and Richard Henry Dana, the 
author of that fascinating sea-story, " Two 
Years Before the Mast." 

So far he had always lived in the old home 
with the gambrel-roof, which had been grow- 
ing dearer and dearer to him ; but at the age 
of fifteen he entered the Phillips Academy, 
at Andovcr, and then for the first time he 
felt the pangs of home-sickness. His year 
there was not very happy. 

"The clock was dreadfully slow in striking 
the hour when recess began, and the profes- 
sors looked as if they were always thinking of 
death," he said to the writer of this sketch 
not long ago. 

But he had pleasant memories of Andover, 
too, and in 1878, when the academy was a 
century old, he went back and read a beauti- 
ful poem describing the sensations with which 
he entered it : 

" The morning came : I reached the classic hall; 
A clock-face eyed me staring from the wall ; 
Beneath its hands a printed line I read : 
Youth is life's seed-time ; so the clock-face said. 
Some took its counsel, as the sequel showed — 
Sowed — their wild oats, and reaped as they had sowed. 

" How all comes back ! the upward slanting floor — 
The masters' thrones that flank the central door — 
The long outstretching alleys that divide 
The rows of desks that stand on either side — 
The staring boys, a face to every desk, 
Bright, dull, pale, blooming, common, picturesque. 

" Grave is the Master's look ; his forehead wears 
Thick rows of wrinkles, fruits of worrying cares ; 
Uneasy lie the heads of all that rule, 
His most of all whose kingdom is a school. 
Supreme he sits ; before the awful frown 
That bends his brows the boldest eye goes down ; 
Not more submissive Israel heard and saw 
At Sinai's foot the Giver of the Law." 

After a year at Andover, Oliver Wendell entered 
Harvard University, and while he was there he 
maintained a fair rank for scholarship. Then he 
studied law for a year, and after that he chose what 
was to be the occupation of his life, — the study and 
practice of medicine. 

His literary gifts were already known. When 
he was about twenty-one, the old frigate Con- 

ffiur€A/ 'j^t^J^O^nU 

stitution, or the " Old Ironsides" as she was called, 
lay in the Charlestown Navy-yard, and the Gov- 
ernment proposed to break her up. Some stirring 
lines protesting against her destruction appeared 
in The Boston Advertiser, from which they were 
copied by other newspapers, and then circulated 
on printed slips. They aroused such enthusiasm 
in favor of the old ship, that the Government con- 
sented to her preservation, and the author found 
his name on every lip : it was Oliver Wendell 
Holmes. Other verses came from the same pen, 
which were no less popular, and the young poet 
had encouragement enough to leave the labora- 
tory, and devote himself to the quill. But he 
remembered, no doubt, what a wise man once 
said about literature as a profession : it is a very 
great staff, but a very sorry crutch. He continued 
to be a physician, and rose to eminence as a profes- 
sor in the Harvard Medical School ; but in his spare 
hours, he cultivated the genius which is as radiant 
as a star in his books. 






By Frank Dempster Sherman. 

AUGUST, month when Summer lies 
Sleeping under sapphire skies : 
Open all the windows wide, 
Drink the orchard's fragrant tide, — 
Breath of grass at morning mown 
Through the leafy vistas blown, — 
Hear the clinking of the scythe 
Sound mellifluent and blithe. 
August, month when everywhere 
Music floats upon the air 

From the harps of minstrel gales 
Playing down the hills and dales : 
August, month when sleepy cows 
Seek the shade of spreading boughs 
Where the robin quirks his head 
Contemplating cherries red : 
August, month of twilights when 
Day half goes, and comes again : 
August days are guards who keep 
Watch while Summer lies asleep. 

l88 7 . ] 



By Mary Hallock Foote. 

Mr. GILMOUR had his wife and children with 
him in camp that summer. They had been with 
him before, in other camps, in places that had 
seemed very distant and strange and comfortless 
to their friends securely housed at home in the 
East ; but an engineer's family soon learns to com- 
pare the camp of the present only with the camp 
of the past — the last camp, or the one before 
that, where water had been sixty cents a barrel, 
and muddy at that ; and milk, twenty-five cents a 
quart, and eggs had traveled far, and butter was 
" packed." 

At the camp in the canon they had a cow. It 
is true she sometimes broke away and went off 
with the herds on the range, and had to be chased 
on horseback and caught with a lasso. They had 
chickens — all that were left them from night raids 
by the coyotes; * — and a garden, the products of 
which they shared with the gophers. But the sup- 
ply-wagon brought fresh fruit from the town, ten 
miles away, and new butter from the valley ranches. 
There were no mosquitoes, no peddlers, no tramps, 
no book-agents, no undesirable neighbor's chil- 
dren, whom one can not scare away as one may the 
neighbor's dogs and chickens when they creep 
through the fence, but must be civil to, for the 
sake of peace and good-will, — which are good 
things in a neighborhood. 

Jack Gilmour worked at his crude inventions in 
the shop, and was allowed to use grown-up tools 
under certain, not too hard, conditions; and Polly 
rode up and down the steep path to the river 
beach on the shoulders of the young assistant- 
engineers — and assistant-everything-elses. The 
mother was waited on and spoiled, as women are 
in camp; she was even invited to go fishing with 
her husband and Mr. Dane, one of the young 
assistants-in-general. It was a dull time for work 
in the camp, and there were good care-takers with 
whom Mrs. Gilmour could trust the children. The 
boy was the elder. He was learning those two 
most important elements of a boy's education, up 
to nine years, according to Sir Walter Scott, — to 
ride and to speak the truth. But he was only 
eight, and perhaps was not quite perfect in either. 

He watched the three happy ones ride away, and 

* Poisoned meat was laid near the chicken-house one night after 
the coyotes had carried off some fine young Plymouth Rocks (with a 
baleful instinct they always picked out the best of the fowls) and was 
eaten by them. Two of the robbers were found next day, dead, by 
the irrigating ditch, where they had crept to quench their thirst, and 

Vol. XIV.— 53. 

as they turned on the hilltop and waved good-bye 
to the little figure on the trail below, he was long- 
ing, with all the strength of desire an eight-year- 
old heart can know, for the time to come when he 
too should climb the hills and wave his hand 
against the sky before turning the crest, where he 
had so often stood and felt so small, gazing up 
into those higher hills which locked the last bright 
bend of the river from sight. 

They were to go up Charcoal Creek; they were 
to cross the "Divide"; they were to go down 
Grouse Creek on the other side, and camp on some 
unknown bit of the river's shore. 

The boy went stumbling back, down the dusty 
path, to his unfinished work in the shop, — the 
engines for a toy elevated road he was making. 
But the painfully fashioned fragments of his plan 
had no meaning for eyes that still saw only the 
hills against the morning sky, and the three happy 
ones riding away. 

This first trip led to a second and longer one, to 
the fishing-grounds up the river, by the trail on 
the opposite shore. Jack heard his father and 
Mr. Dane talking one morning at the breakfast- 
table about riding down to Turner's and getting a 
pack-animal and some more riding animals — and 
Mamma was going again ! What good times the 
grown-ups did have ! And John Wilson, Jack's 
particular crony from the men's camp, was going, 
to cook and take care of the animals. This word, 
"animal," is used in the West to describe any- 
thing that is ridden or "packed" — horse, mule, 
Indian pony, or "burro." It is never applied to 
cattle or unbroken horses on the range; these are 

The party were to take a tent and stay perhaps a 
week, if no word came from the home camp to call 
them back. 

Jack slipped away from the table and went 
out and hung upon the railing of a footbridge 
that crossed the brook. Beside learning how to ride 
and to speak the truth, Jack was learning to whistle. 
He was practicing this last more persistently per- 
haps than either of the more important branches of 
knowledge, — let us hope because there was more 
need of practice ; for he was as yet very far from 

one was afterward seen, from time to time, in the sage-brush, a 
hairless specter. The coyote mothers no doubt told their babies of 
this grewsome outcast as a warning — not against chicken-stealing, 
which must be one of the coyote virtues — but against poison and 
other desperate arts of man. 

/6 K 



being a perfect whistler. It was but a melancholy, 
tuneless little note in which he gave vent to his feel- 
ings, as he watched the trickling water. 

" I 'd like to take the boy," his father was that 
moment saying at the breakfast-table in the cook- 
tent, "if we had anything he could ride"; and 
then he added, smiling, "there 's Mrs. O'Dowd." 
The smile went around the table. 

Mrs. O'Dowd, or " Peggy," as she was variously 
called, was a gray donkey, of uncertain age and 
mild but inflexible disposition, who sometimes con- 
sented to carry the children over the hills at a 
moderate pace ; her usual equipment being a side- 
saddle, which did not fit her oval figure (the curves 
of which turned the wrong way for beauty) ; so 
the side-saddle was always slipping off, obliging 
the children to slide down and " cinch up."* 

The engineer's house was built against a hill ; 
from the end of the upper piazza a short bridge, or 
gang-plank, joined the hill and met a steep trail 
which led upward to the tents, the garden, the 
road to the lower camp, the road up the bluffs, 
and all the rest of the children's world beyond 
the gulch. One of their favorite exercises with 
Mrs. O'Dowd was to ride her down the trail, and 
try to force her over this gang-plank. She would 
put her small feet cautiously one before the other, 
hanging her great white head and sniffing her 
way. The instant her toes touched the reso- 
nant boards of the bridge, she stopped, and then 
the exercises began. Mrs. O'Dowd's gravity and 
resignation in the midst of the children's laugh- 
ing and shouting and pulling and whacking, was 
most edifying to see ; but she never budged. She 
saw the darlings of the household dance back and 
forth before her in safety ; the engineers in their 
big boots would push past her and tramp over 
the bridge. 

Mrs. O'Dowd was a creature of fixed habits. Use- 
less, flighty children, and people with unaccount- 
able ways of their own might do as they liked ; it 
had never been her habit to trust Mrs. O'D. on 
such a place as that, and she never did. 

" Yes, the boy might ride Peggy," said Jack's 
father. " He could keep her up with John and 
the pack-mule, if not with us." 

"Oh, I should not want him behind with the 
men," said Jack's mother, — "and those high 
trails ! If he is to go over such places, he must 
ride where you can look after his saddle-girths." 
She could hear Jack's disconsolate whistle as she 
spoke. " I hope he does not hear us," she said. 
"It would break his heart to have the hope, and 
be left behind after all." 

" If the boy's heart is going to break as easily 
as that, it is time it was toughened," said his father, 
but not ungentlv. " I should tell him there is a 

chance of his going; but if it can't be managed, he 
must not whine about it." 

Jack went to bed by himself always, except Sun- 
day nights ; then his mother went with him, and 
saw that he laid his clothes in a neat pile on the 
trunk by his bed, — for in a camp bedroom trunks 
sometimes take the place of chairs, — and heard him 
say his prayers, and sometimes they talked together 
a little while before she kissed him good-night. 
That night was Sunday night, and Jack's mother 
asked him, while she watched his undressing, if it 
ever made him dizzy to stand on high places and 
look down. Jack did not seem to know what that 
feeling was like ; and then she asked him how far 
he had ever ridden on Mrs. O'Dowd at one time. 
Jack thought he had never ridden farther than Mr. 
Hensley's ranch — that was three miles away, six 
miles in all, going and coming; but he had rested 
at the ranch, and had walked for a part of the jour- 
ney when his sister Polly had resolved to ride alone 
by herself, instead of behind him, holding on to 
his jacket. 

It made his mother very happy to tell the boy 
that the next day, if nothing happened to prevent, 
he was to set out with the fishing-party for a 
week's camping up the river. She knew how, in 
his reticent child's heart, he had envied them. He 
was seated on the side of his bed, emptying the 
beach sand out of his stockings, when she told him. 
He said nothing at first, and one who did not 
know his plain little face as his mother knew it, 
might have thought he was indifferent. She took 
a last look at him, before leaving the room, with the 
lamp in her hand. It seemed but a very little while 
ago that the close-cropped whity-brown head on 
the pillow was covered with locks like thistle-down, 
which had never been touched with the scissors ; 
that the dark little work-hardened hands (for Jack's 
play was always work) lying outside the sheet had 
been kissed a dozen times a day for joy of their 
rosy palms and dimples. And to-morrow the boy 
would put on spurs, — no, not spurs, but a spur, 
left over from the men's accouterments, — and he 
would ride — to be sure it was only Mrs. O'Dowd; 
but no less would the journey be one of the 
landmarks in his life. And many older adven- 
turers than Jack have set out in this way on their 
first emprise — not very heroically equipped, ex- 
cept for brave and joyous dreams, and good faith in 
their ability to keep the pace set by better-mounted 

Jack woke next morning with a delightful feel- 
ing that this day was not going to be like any 
other day he had known. Preparations for the 
journey had already begun. In the cook-tent two 
boxes were being filled with things to eat and 
things to cook them with. These were to be cov- 

* To " cinch up " is to tighten the girths and straps of a saddle. 

i88 7 .] 



ered with canvas, roped, and fastened, one on 
each side of the pack- mule's pack-saddle. On the 
piazza, saddle-bags were being packed; guns, am- 
munition, fishing-rods, rubber coats, and cushions 
were being collected in a heap for John to carry 
down to the beach to be ferried across the river, 
where the man from Turner's horse-ranch was 
already waiting with the animals. The saddle- 
horses and Mrs. O'Dowd were to cross by the ford 
above the rapids. The boat went back and forth 
two or three times, and in the last load went Jack 
and his mother and Polly in the care of one of the 
young engineers. The stir of departure had fired 
Polly's imagination. It was not Mamma saying 
good-bye to Polly — it was Polly saying good- 
bye to Mamma before riding off with " bubba " on 
an expedition of their own. She was telling about 
it, in a soft, joyous recitative, to any one who 
had time to listen. The man from Turner's had 
brought, for Mrs. Gilmour to ride, a mule he called 
a lady's animal, but remarked that for his own use 
he preferred one that would go. Mrs. Gilmour 
thought that she did, too ; so the side-saddle was 
changed from the "lady's animal" to the mule 
that " would go." 

The pack-mule was " packed," the men's horses 
were across the ford, Mamma had kissed Polly, 
two pairs and a half of spurs were jingling im- 
patiently on the rocks — but where was Mrs. 

She was dallying at the ford, — she was coy about 
taking to the water. Sticks and straps and em- 
phatic words of encouragement had no effect upon 
her. She had, unfortunately, had time to make 
up her mind, and she had made it up not to cross 
the river. She was persuaded finally, by means of 
a "lasso rope " around her neck. Everybody was 
laughing at her subdued way of making herself 
conspicuous, delaying the whole party, and meekly 
implying that it was everybody's fault but her 

The camp of the engineers was on a little river 
of Idaho that rises in the Bitter-root range of the 
Rocky Mountains, and flows into the swift, silent 
current of the great Snake River, which flows into 
the Columbia, which flows into the Pacific ; so 
that the waters of this little inland river see a 
great deal of grand and peculiar scenery on their 
way to the ocean. But the river as it flows past 
the camp is still very young and inexperienced. 
Its waters have carried no craft larger than a 
lumber-man's pirogue, or the coffin-shaped box 
the Chinese wood-drivers use for a boat. Its 
canons have never echoed to a locomotive's scream ; 
it knows not towns nor villages ; not even a tele- 
graph-pole has ever been reared on its banks. It 
is just out of the mountains, hurrying down through 

the gate of its last canon to the desert plains. But, 
young and provincial as it is, it has an ancestral 
history of its own, very ancient and respectable, if 
mystery and tragedy and years of reticence can 
give dignity to a family history. The river's story 
has been patiently recorded on the rock tablets of 
the black basalt bluffs that face each other across 
miles of its channel. Their language it is not 
given to everybody to read. The geologists tell a 
wonderful tale which they learned from those in- 
scriptions on the rocks. They do not say how 
many years ago, but long enough to have given a 
very ancient name to our river — had there been any 
one living at that time to call it by a name — it met 
with a fearful obstruction, a very dragon in its 
path, which threatened to devour it altogether, or 
to scatter it in little streams over the face of the 
earth. A flood of melted, boiling-hot lava burst 
up suddenly in the river's bed, making it to boil 
like a pot, and crowded into the granite gorges 
through which the river had found its way, 
half filling them. It was a battle between the 
heavens and the earth, — the stream of molten 
rock, blinding hot from the caverns beneath the 
earth's crust, meeting the sweet cool waters from 
the clouds that troop about the mountains, or hide 
their tops in mist and snow. The life-giving flood 
prevailed over that which brought only defacement 
and death. The sullen lava flux settled, shrunk., 
and hardened at last, fitting into the granite gorges 
as melted lead fits the mold into which it is poured. 
The waters kept flowing down, never resting 
till they had worn a new channel in the path of 
the old one, only narrower and deeper, down 
through the intruding lava. When the river was 
first known to men, wherever its course lay through 
a granite gorge, the granite was seen to be lined 
in places, often continuously for miles, with black 
lava rock, or basalt, standing in lofty palisades, with 
deeply-scarred and graven fronts, and with long 
slides of crumbled rock at their feet, descending to 
the level of the river. Another part of the river's 
story has been toilsomely written in the trails that 
wind along its shores, worn by the feet of men and 
animals. Whose feet were the first to tread them, 
and on what errands ? This is the part of the river's 
story some of us would like best to know. But this 
the geologist can not tell us. 

It was one of these hunters', miners', cowboys', 
packers', ranchmens' trails the fishing-party fol- 
lowed on its way up the river. Through the canon 
they wound along the base of the lava bluffs; then 
entered a crooked fold of the hills called Sheep 
Gulch, passing through willow thickets, rattling 
over the pebbles of a summer-dried stream, losing 
the breeze and getting more than they wanted of the 
sun. Sheep Gulch is one of the haunts of grouse, 



wood-doves, and "cotton-tails" (as the little gray 
rabbits are called to distinguish them from the tall 
leaping "jack-rabbits" of the sage-brush plains, 
which are like the English hare). 

Above Turner's horse-ranch, Sheep Gulch divides 
into two branches; up one of these goes the old 
Idaho City road. Where the gulch divides there 
is a disused cabin, which Jack remembered after- 
ward, because there they saw some grouse which 
they did n't get, and there they left the trail for 
the old stage-road. As they climbed the little 
divide which separates the waters (when there are 

to cinch up and to ask a drink all 'round from 
the spring which all travelers who have tasted it 

The women of the household — a slender, dark- 
haired daughter, and a stout, fair, flushed mother 
with a year-old baby — were busy, baby and all, in 
an out-door kitchen, a delightful-looking place, 
part light and part shadow, and full of all manner 
of tools and rude conveniences that told of cheer- 
ful, busy living, and making the best of things. 
They were preparing for the coming, next week, 
of the threshers, — a yearly event of consequence 

■n tif^m 


any) of Sheep Gulch from those of Moore's Creek, 
they were met by a fresh breeze which cooled their 
hot faces, and seemed to welcome them to the hills. 
The hills were all around them now — the beautiful 
mountain pastures, golden with their wind-sown 
harvest of wild, strong-stemmed grasses. As the 
grass becomes scarce on the lower ranges, the 
herds of cattle climb to the higher, along the 
spiral trails they make in grazing, taking always, 
like good surveyors, the easiest upward grade. 

In the fall, the cattle-men send out their cow- 
boys, or "riders," to drive the herds down from 
these highest ranges, where snow falls early, and to 
collect them in some valley chosen for the autumn 

At Giles's ranch, on the divide, the party halted 

at a ranch, — fifteen men, with horses for their 
machines, and saddle-horses besides, all to be fed 
and slept at the ranch. In the corral behind the 
big new barn, there were stacks of yellow and stacks 
of green, and between them a hay-press, painted 
pink, which one could see as far as one could see 
Giles's. Altogether it was lovely at Giles's; but 
they were building a new house, — which, of course, 
they had a perfect right to do. But whoever 
stops there next year will find them all snugly 
roofed and gabled and painted white; and it is to 
be feared the out-door kitchen, with its dim cor- 
ners full of "truck," and its lights and shadows, 
will be seen no more. 

The old stage-road went gayly along a bit of 
high plain, and then, without the slightest hesita- 

i88 7 .] 


tion or circumlocution, dropped off into the canon 
of Moore's Creek. These reckless old pioneer 
roads give one a vivid idea of the race for pos- 
session of a new mining-camp, and of the pluck it 
took to win. At the "freeze-out," stage-passengers 
probably got out and walked, and the driver 
"rough-locked" the wheels; but the horsemen 
of that new country doubtless took a fresh hitch 
on their cinches, and went jouncing down the 
break-neck grade with countenances as calm as 
those of the illustrious riders of bronze and marble 
horses we see in the public squares, unless they 
were tired of the saddle and walked down to rest 
themselves, — never their horses. 

Jack's short legs were getting numb with press- 
ing the saddle, and he was glad to walk, and 
to linger on his way down the wild descent into 
the canon. It was the middle of September; 
Moore's Creek had not more than enough water 
left to float the " Chinaman's drive " of cord-wood, 
cut higher up on its banks. Its waters, moreover, 
were turbid with muddy tailings emptied into them 
from the sluice-boxes of the placer-miners who had 
been working all summer on the bars. Above 
Moore's Creek the water of the river is clear as that 
of a trout-stream and iridescent with reflections 
from sky and shore ; but after its union with that 
ill-fated stream it is obliged to carry the poor 
creek's burden, and its own bright waters thence- 
forth wear the stain of labor. A breath of cool- 
ness as of sunless rocks, and damp, spicy shade, 
came up to them from the canon ; and a noise of 
waters, mingled with queer discordant cries. It 
was dinner-time at the Chinamen's camp, and word 
was being passed up stream, from man to man, call- 
ing the wood-drivers to leave their work. They were 
not the sleek-braided, white-bloused, silk-sashed 
Chinese of the house-servant variety. They had 
wild, black hair, rugged, not fat, sleepy faces, and 
little clothing except the boots, — store boots, in 
which a Chinaman is queerer than in anything 
except a store hat. They struggled with the jam 
of cord-wood as if it were some sort of water-prey 
they had hunted down, and were now meeting at 
bay, spearing, thrusting, hooking with their long 
boat-hooks, skipping from rock to rock in mid- 
stream, and hoarse with shouting. 

The party had now left the stage-road and turned 
down the pack-trail along the creek toward its 
junction with the river. The pack-trail here 
crosses the creek by a bridge high above the 
stream ; the bridge was good enough, but it was 
a question whether Mrs. O'Dowd, with her known 
prejudices, could be induced to go over it. It was 
quickly decided to get a "good ready," as Jack 
said, and hustle the old lady down the trail between 
two of the horses, and crowd her on the bridge 

before she had time to make up that remarkable 
mind of hers. This simple plan was carried out 
with enthusiasm on the part of all but Mrs. O'D. 

Soon after leaving Giles's, they had met a wagon- 
load of people townward bound from Gillespie's, 
the beautiful river ranch above Moore's Creek. 
Mr. Gilmour had stopped them to inquire if a 
pack-animal and two riding animals, mules or 
horses, could be sent from the ranch up to the 
fishing-camp, on a day set for the journey home ; 
for the mules from Turner's were to go back that 
same day, to start the next day but one, as part of 
a pack-train bound for Atlanta. 

The people in the wagon " could n't say." Most 
of the horses were out on the range ; those at the 
ranch were being used for hauling peaches to 
town, fording Moore's Creek and the river, and 
scaling trfe "freeze-out." But Mr. Gillespie him- 
self was at home ; the travelers had better stop cm 
the way up and find out. 

So, after crossing the bridge and gaining the 
good trail along the river-bank, Mr. Dane spurred 
on ahead and forded the river, to make the neces- 
sary inquiries at the ranch. Gillespie's is on the 
opposite side of the river from the packer's trail. 
It is most beautiful with the sun in the western 
sky, its hills and water-front of white beach and 
pine trees all in shadow, and a broad reflection 
floating out into the river at its feet. 

The sun was still high and the shadows were 
short ; but the river ranch was a fair picture of a 
frontier home, as they looked back at it, passing 
by on the other side ; the last home they should 
see on the wild way they were taking. 

The trail went winding up and up, and still 
higher, until they were far above the river, and 
could see, beyond the still reflections that darkened 
it by Gillespie's, the white-whipped waters of the 
rapids above. And the higher they went, the 
more hills beyond hills rose along the horizon 
widening their view. 

Mr. Dane had rejoined the party, with a satis- 
factory report from the ranch. He rode ahead, 
on his blue-roan Indian pony, twirling his romdl, a 
long leathern strap attached to the saddle, the end 
divided like a double whiplash, by means of 
which, and a pair of heavy blunt spurs, " Blue 
Pete " and his rider had come to a perfect under- 
standing. Blue Pete was a sulky little brute, with 
a broad white streak down his nose and rather a 
vicious eye, but he was tough and unsensitive, and 
minded his business. 

Next came Jack's mamma on the "mule that 
would go," with a will — as far as Turner's, — but 
after that needed the usual encouragement ; but a 
gentle-paced creature and sure-footed on a bad 




trail. Then came Jack on Mrs. O'Dowd. The 
poor old gill had been vigorously cinched, and it 
was n't becoming to her figure ; but those were bad 
places for a saddle to turn, even with an active, 
eight-year-old boy on it. 

The boy was deeply content, gazing about him 
at the river, the hills, the winding trail ahead, and 
serenely poking up Mrs. O'Dowd with his one spur, 
in response to his packer's often-repeated com- 
mand to "Keep her up!" When Mrs. O'Dowd 
refused to be kept up, Jack's father made a rush at 
her — a kind of business his good horse Billy must 
have despised, for Billy had points which indicated 
better blood than that which is usually found 
in the veins of those tough little "rustlers" of 
the desert and the range. He loved to lead on 
a hard trail, with his long, striding walk, his 
cheerful well-opened eyes to the front. He was 
gentle, but he was also scornful; he was not a 
"lady's animal"; he had a contempt for paltry 
little objectless canters over the hills with limp- 
handed women and children flopping about 
on his back. He liked to feel there was work 
ahead ; a long climb and a bad trail did not 
frighten him ; he looked his best when he was 
breasting a keen ascent with the wind of the sum- 
mit parting his thin forelock, his ears pointed 
forward, his breath coming quick and deep, his 
broad haunches working under the saddle. Poor 
work indeed he must have thought it, hustling a 
lazy, sulky old donkey along a trail that was as 
nothing to his own sinewy legs. 

After Billy came the pack-mule, driven by the 
man from Turner's, a square-jawed, bronzed young 
fellow, mounted also on a mule, and conversing 
amicably with John Wilson. The lunch-bag had 
been passed down the line, but there was no halt, 
except for water at the crossing of a little gulch. 
The trail wound in and out, among the spurs of 
the hills, and up and down the rock-faced heights. 
They passed a roofless cabin, once the dwelling of 
some placer-miners, and farther on the half-obliter- 
ated ditch they had built leading to the deserted 
bars, where a few gray, warped sluice-boxes were 
falling to pieces in the sun. 

Between two and three o'clock they came in 
sight of some large pine-trees, sheltering a half- 
circle of white sand beach that sloped smoothly to 
the river. Above the pine-trees a granite cliff 
rose two hundred and fifty feet of solid rock against 
a hill, five hundred or more feet higher, that shut 
off the morning sun. Between the cliff and the 
lava bluffs opposite, the eastern and western 
shadows nearly met across the river. There 
were deep, still pools among the rocks near 
shore, where the large trout congregate. Below 
the shadowed bend, the river spread out again 

suddenly in the sunlight, which flashed white 
as silver on the ripples of a gravelly bar. This 
was the spot chosen at sight for the fishing- 

A bald eagle, perched on a turret of the lava 
bluffs across the river, watched the party descend- 
ing the trail. At the report of a rifle, echoing 
among the rocks, he rose and wheeled away over 
the pine-trees, without hurrying himself or drop- 
ping a single feather in acknowledgment of the 
shot. It was a dignified, rather scornful retreat. 

Where the trail hugs the cliff closest, on its way 
around the bend, it passes under a big overhanging 
rock. No one, I am sure, ever rode under it for 
the first time without looking up at the black 
crack between it and the cliff, and wondering how 
far up the crack goes, and when the huge mass 
will fall. There is a story that the Banoock braves, 
following this trail on the war-path, always fired a 
passing arrow up into the crack, — perhaps out of 
the exuberance of youth and war-paint, perhaps to 
propitiate the demon of the rocks, lest he should 
drop one of his superfluous bowlders on their 
feathered heads. The white men who followed 
the trail after the Indians had left it, amused 
themselves by shooting at the arrows and dis- 
lodging them from the crack. The story must 
be true, because there are no arrows left in the 
crack. Jack stared up at it many times, and never 
could see one. 

So now they were at home for a week in the 
wilderness. Jack followed Wilson about as he 
was "making camp," cutting tent-pegs and poles, 
and putting up the old A-tent, which had seen 
service in the army, and in many frontier camps 
since it was "condemned" and sold at quarter- 
master's sale. 

The man from Turner's had taken another bite 
of lunch and returned with his animals, bidding 
Jack watch for him as he passed the camp day 
after to-morrow with his mule-train for Atlanta. 

The kitchen was unpacked down on the beach, 
and the fireplace chosen, — a big, wedge-shaped 
rock, — in the lee of which John built a fire, not for 
warmth, but for the sake of a good bed of coals for 
cooking. Mrs. Gilmour was resting in the tent, 
under the pine-trees. Mr. Gilmour had gone up 
the river to catch some trout for supper. 

After four o'clock the sun left the river bank, but 
all the colors were distinct and strong; — the white- 
beach, the dark pine boughs against the sky, the 
purple colors in the rocks, and the spots of pale 
green and yellow lichen on them; the changing 
tints in the dark water, swinging smoothly around 
the bend, and then flashing out into a broad sheet 
of silvery sparkles over the bar. It was as if it 



went gravely around the shadowy bend and then 
broke out laughing in the bright light. 

As it grew darker, the kitchen fire began to 
glow red against the big gray rock. In front of 
it John was stooping to heap coals on the lid of the 
bake-kettle, where the bread was spread in a thin, 
round cake for cooking. 

There were three big trout for supper, and four 
or five little ones. The big ones were a noble 
weight to tell of, but the little ones tasted the best 
when they were taken out of the bake-kettle on 
hot tin plates, and served with thin, curly slices 
of bacon and camp bread. 

The horses had been turned loose up the trail, 
but now came wandering back, Billy leading, fol- 
lowed by Pete, who was hobbled, but managed to 
keep up with him, and Mrs. O'Dowd meandering 
meekly in the rear. They were on their way 
home, having decided that was the best place to 
pass the night ; but John turned them back, and, 
after supper, he watered them at the river and took 
them up the trail to a rudely-fenced inclosure on 
the bluffs, where there was better pasture. 

Sleepy-time for Jack came very soon after 
supper, but as the tent was some distance from 
the camp-fire, — a lonesome bedroom for a lit- 
tle boy to lie in by himself, — he was rolled up 
in a blanket and allowed to sleep by the camp- 
fire. The last thing he could remember was the 
sound of the river and the wind in the great pine 
boughs overhead, and voices around him talking 
about the stars that could be seen in the night sky 
between the fire-illumined tree branches. The 
great boughs moved strangely in the hot breath 
of the fire that lit them from below. The sky 
between looked black as ink ; the stars blazed far 
and keen. John was washing up the dishes, on 
his knees, by the light of a candle fastened in a 
box set upon end to shield it from draughts. Jack 
watched the light shining up into his face and on 
his hands, as he moved them about. And then it 
seemed as if he had slept but a moment, when they 
were shaking him and trying to stand him on his 
feet, and he was stumbling along to the tent with 
his father's arm around him. 

How they crawled about in the low tent by the 
light of a candle fastened by its own drippings to a 
stone, and took off a few clothes and put on more, — 
for the September nights were cold ; how cosy it 
was, lying down in his blankets inside the white 
walls of the tent with the curtain securely tied 
against the wind, with his father close beside him, 
and his father's gun on the outside within reach of 
an out-stretched hand ; how the light went out and 
the river sounded on, and some twigs scraped 
against the tent in the wind ; this is about all Jack 
can remember of his first night under canvas. 

The morning was gray and cold. The sun had 
been up several hours before it was seen in the 

Mr. Gilmour was out with the earliest light for 
trout. Jack was the next to leave the tent and go 
shivering down to the river to wash, and then run 
to warm his red hands and button his jacket at 
the kitchen fire, where John was again cooking 
bread. John and Mr. Dane had slept on the 
beach with only the pine boughs for a roof and 
saddle-bags for a pillow. 

When Mrs. Gilmour appeared, last of all, Jack 
was just finishing his second chunk of last night's 
bread, leaning against the angle of the rock fire- 
place out of the smoke, which made a pale, blue, 
wavering flight upward and aslant the dark pine 

The fisherman had returned with trout, but not 
a surfeit of trout, for breakfast. The bread was 
taken out of the bake-kettle, and the trout put in, 
to plump up in their own steam over the coals. 
The coffee smelled deliciously in the sweet, cold 
air. The broiled ham was welcome, even after a 
first course of trout, and Jack was good for a third 
of bread and honey. He could use his fingers, 
and wipe up the honey with the broken bread until 
his tin plate shone, not to speak of his counten- 
ance, and nobody observed him except to smile. 

But something had happened that morning 
besides breakfast. Mr. Dane had lost a tremen- 
dous trout, after playing him a long time and 
tiring him out. The gentleman had been fishing 
from a rock, with deep water all around him. 
The big fish seemed quite still and tame as he 
drawn in, but, as his tail touched the rock, with 
a frantic rebound, he made one last plunge for the 
water, and got off. If there had been but a beach 
to land him on ! 

Then, a man had been shot the evening before at 
Atlanta, the big mining-camp of the Saw-tooth 
range, and another man riding a tired horse had 

passed the camp at daybreak, on his way to B 

for a surgeon. The horse he had started with 
from Atlanta had given out about twenty miles 
from that place ; he had walked ten or fifteen 
miles along the mountain trail in the darkness 
before he could get another horse. He wished to 
change this for one of the horses from the fishing- 
camp, but they were back on the bluffs, and he 
concluded to go on and change at Gillespie's. He 
had traveled about fifty miles that night, on horse- 
back and on foot, over a trail that some of us would 
not enjoy riding over by daylight. 

His wife and her young child were at his horse- 
ranch away back on the hills, alone, except for 
some of the cowboys. He had gone up to Atlanta 
to attend the ball. The man was a stranger to 




him, — had a brother in B , he believed. He 

had let his horse breathe a moment while he 
talked to John, and took a bite of something to 
eat, and then went on his way. 

It was strange to think that all this was part of 
those dark hours of the night that had passed so 

That second day Mr. Gilmour went fishing alone 
down the river. John was gathering firewood; the 
boy and his mother were in the tent; Mr. Dane 
sat in the doorway, tending a little fire he had 
made outside, and reading aloud from the new 
magazine, while Mrs. Gilmour made a languid 




peacefully to the sleepers on the river beach, — the 
miner's ball, the shooting, the night ride in haste, 
the wife waiting at the lonely ranch in the hills for 
her husband's return. 

The day passed with fishing and sketching and 
eating, and beauty of sunlight and shadow on 
rocks and trees and river. 

Wilson had built a table, and placed boxes 
around it for seats. The gray-rock fireplace had 
got well blackened, and the camp had taken on a 
homelike look. And Jack had gone for a glorious 
walk up the trail with Wilson, to see if the fence 
on the bluffs was all right, and if there was a way 
down to the river from the bluffs by which the 
horses could go down to drink. There was one, a 
rather obscure way ; but Billy was clever, and 
Pete was a " rustler," and Mrs. O'Dowd could 
be relied upon to follow her betters' lead. But 
they did not seem to be eating, and Jack fancied 
they looked homesick in their high pasture, as if 
the scenery did not console them for being sent 
off so far from camp. 

sketch of him, in his red-hooded blanket robe. 
Mr. Dane was the first to hear a shout from down 
the river. He threw off the red robe, seized a rifle, 
and ran down the shore in the direction Mr. Gil- 
mour had taken. The shout meant, to him, game 
of a kind that could not be tackled with a fly-rod. 

In a moment or two he came running back for 
more cartridges. Mr. Gilmour had met with a 
black bear, and they were going after him. John 
followed with the ax. Some time passed, but no 
shots were heard. At last the men came back, 
warm and merry, though disappointed of their 
game. The bear had got away. It was tantaliz- 
ing to think how fat and sleek he must have been, 
after his summer in the mountains. There would 
be no bear-steaks for supper that night, and no 
glossy dark skin to carry back in triumph to the 
home camp and spread before next winter's hearth 
wherever the house-fires might be lighted. Mr. 
Gilmour had been walking down the trail when 
he saw the bear ahead of him, crossing the high 
flat toward the trail and making straight for the 



river. If both had continued to advance, there 
would have been a meeting, and as Mr. Gilmour 
was armed only with a fly-rod and a pistol, he 
preferred the meeting should be postponed. Then 
he stopped and shouted for Dane. The bear came 
on, and Mr. Gilmour fell back, leisurely, he said, 
toward camp. He did not care to bring his game 
in alive, he said, without giving the camp due 
warning, so he shouted again. It was the second 
shout Dane had heard. The way of his retreat 
took him down into a little gulch, where he lost 
sight of the bear. It did not take very long to tell 
the story of the hunt, and then Mr. Gilmour went 
back to his fishing. The sun came out. The fire 
in front of the tent was a heap of smoking ashes; 
the magazine story palled ; the sketch was pro- 
nounced not worth finishing; and then the pack- 
train for Atlanta came tinkling and shuffling down 
the trail. Fourteen sleek, handsome mules, with 
crisp, clipped manes, like the little Greek horses 
on ancient friezes, passed in single file between a 

farther down the river, and heard the story about 
the bear, and offered to leave his dog, which he 
said was a good bear-dog. But the dog would n't 
be left, and so the picturesque freight-train went 
its way, under the Indian's rock, and up the steep 
climb beyond. High above the river they could 
be seen, footing with neat steps the winding trail, 
their packs swinging and shuffling with a sidelong 
motion, in time to the regular pace, while the bell 
sounded fainter and fainter. 

Bear-stories were told by the camp-fire that 
night; and Mr. Dane slept with his rifle handy, 
and John with an ax. John said he was a better 
shot with an ax than with a rifle. Jack thought 
he should dream of bears, but he did n't. The 
next morning he went with John Wilson up to the 
high pasture to bring down one of the horses. 
Wilson was to ride down to Gillespie's and make 
sure of transportation for the party home, the next 
day but one. 

Jack had the happiness of riding Billy bare- 


man riding ahead on the "bell-mare," and anoth- 
er bringing up the rear of the train, swinging his 
leathern "blind" as he rode. This one was the 
man from Turner's. He had met Mr. Gilmour 

Vol. XIV.— 54. 

backed down the trail, following John on Pete, 
Mrs. O'Dowd, as usual, in the rear. Mr. Gilmour 
was surprised to see all the animals coming down, 
and he noticed at once how hollow and drooping 




the horses looked. John explained that they had 
evidently not been able to find the trail leading 
down to the river, and had been without water 
all the time they had been kept upon the bluffs. 
He could see by their tracks where they had wan- 
dered back and forth along the edge of the bluffs, 
seeking a way down. How glad they must have 
been of that deep draught from the river, that had 
mocked them so long with the sound of its waters! 
No one liked to find fault with Wilson, who was 
faithful and tender-hearted ; and it was stupid of 
horses, used to the range, not to have gone back 
from the bluffs and followed the fence until they 
found the outlet to the river. They quickly re- 
vived with water and food, which they could once 
more enjoy now that their long thirst was quenched. 
Wilson rode Pete down to Gillespie's, and re- 
turned in the afternoon with word that Mr. Gilles- 
pie himself would come for the party on Saturday, 
with the outfit required. 

The evening was cool and cloudy ; twilight came 
on early, and Wilson cooked supper with the whole 
family gathered around his fire, hungrily watching 
him. There was light enough from the fire, min- 
gled with the wan twilight on the beach, by which 
to eat supper. John was filling the tin cups with 
coffee, when horses' feet were heard coming down 

the trail from the direction of B . A man on 

a gray horse stopped under the Indian's rock and, 
looking down on the group on the beach below, 
asked what was " the show for a bite of something 
to eat." He was invited to share what there was, 
and, throwing the bridle loose on his horse's neck, 
he dropped out of the saddle and joined the party 
at the table. 

He was the man from Atlanta, returning from 

his errand to B . No doctor had been willing 

to go up from B , so he said, and the friends of 

the wounded man had telegraphed to C , and a 

doctor had gone across from there. The messen- 
ger had stayed over a day in B to rest, and 

was now on his way home to his ranch in the hills. 
He gave the details of the shooting, — the usual 
details, received with the usual comments and 
speculations as to the wounded man's recovery, — 
then the talk turned upon sport, and bear stories 
and fish stories were in order. The man from 
Atlanta knew what good hunting was, from his 
own account. He told how he had struck a bear- 
track about as big as a man's hand in the woods, and 
followed it some distance, thinking it was "about 
his size," and all of a sudden he had come upon a 
fresh track about as big — he picked up the cover 
of the bake-kettle — "as big as that." Then he 
turned around and came home. It was suggested 
(after the man from Atlanta had gone) that the 
big track he saw was where the bear had sat down. 

It was now deep dusk in the woods ; only the 
latest and palest sky-gleams touched the water. 
The stranger included the entire party in his cor- 
dial invitation to stop at his place if they ever got 
so far up the river, mounted his horse, and quickly 
disappeared up the trail. He expected to reach his 
home some time that night. 

The next day was the last in camp. It was still 
gray, cold weather, and the tent among the pine- 
trees looked inviting, with a suggestion of a fire 
outside; but there were sketches to be finished, 
and last walks to be taken, and a big catch of 
trout to be caught to take home. Jack had a little 
enterprise of his own to complete — the filling of a 
tin can Wilson had given him with melted pine 
gum, which hardened into clear, solid resin. The 
can was nearly full, and Jack had various experi- 
ments in his mind which he intended to try with 
it on his return. Wilson had told him it would 
make an excellent boot-grease mixed with tallow — 
and if he should want to make a pair of Norwegian 
snowshoes next winter, it would be just the thing 
to rub on the bottom of the wood to make it slip 
easily over the snow. 

Wilson was going back on the hills to try to 
get some grouse, and the boy was allowed to go 
with him. They tramped off together, and the 
walk was one of the memorable ones in Jack's 
experience ; but Jack's mother would not have 
been so contented in his absence, had she known 
they were coming home by way of deer gulch, 
one of the most likely places in the neighborhood 
of the camp for a meeting with a bear. 

Mr. Gilmour was the enthusiast about fishing, 
and so it fell out that Mr. Dane was generally the 
one to stay about camp if John were off duty. The 
fishing should have been good, but it was not, 
partly because the Chinese placer-miners on the 
river had a practice of emptying the deep pools of 
trout by means of giant-powder, destroying a hun- 
dred times as many fish as they ate. The glorious 
fishing was higher up the river, and in its tributaries, 
the mountain streams. However, not a day had 
passed without one meal of trout at least, and many 
of the fish were of great size, and an enthusiast like 
Mr. Gilmour cares for the sport, not for the fish ! 

The last camp-fire, Jack thought, was the best 
one of all ; it was built farther down the beach, 
since a change of wind had made the corner by the 
rock fireplace uncomfortable. A big log, rolled 
up near the fire on its windward side, made an 
excellent settle-back, the seat of which was the 
sand with blankets spread over it. The company 
sat in a row, facing the fire, and Mrs. Gilmour 
was provided with a tin plate for a hand-screen. 
Perhaps they all were rather glad they were going 
home to-morrow. Mrs. Gilmour wanted to see 

i88 7 .) 



Polly, and the sand floor of the tent was getting 
lumpy, and they all were beginning to long for 
the wider outlook and the fuller life of the home- 
camp at headquarters. Beautiful as the great 
pine-trees, the sheltered beach, and the shadows 
on the water had looked to them after their long, 
hot ride over the mountain-trail, there were always 
the granite cliff on one side and the lava bluffs on 
the other, and no far-off lines for the eye to rest 
upon. People who have lived in places where 
there is a great deal of sky, and a wide horizon, 
are never long contented in nooks and corners of 
the earth, however lovely their detail may be. 

At all events, the talk was gayer that last night 
by the camp-fire than any night except the first one of 
their stay. At last one of the company — the small- 
est one — slid quietly out of sight among the blankets, 
and no more was heard of him until the time came 
to dig him out, and restore him to consciousness. 

AfterMr. and Mrs. Gilmourand Jack — poorlittle 
sleepy Jack — had gone down the shoreto theirtent, 
Mr. Dane and Wilson rolled the logsettle upon the 
fire. It burned all night, and there were brands 
left with which to light the kitchen fire. 

Breakfast was a sort of "clean-up," as the miners 
say. The last of the ham, the last of the honey, 
one trout, left over from last night's supper, which 
the company quarreled about, each in turn refus- 
ing it, — even Jack, who seldom refused anything 
in the eating line, — and leaving it finally for John, 
who, perhaps suspecting there was something 
wrong with it, threw it out upon the beach. 

After breakfast, everybody fell to packing, except 
Jack, who roamed around, with his leggings and 
his one spur on, watching for Mr. Gillespie and 
the animals. 

Mrs. Gilmour had finished her small share of 
the packing, and with Jack climbed up among the 
rocks in the shadow of the cliff. Mr. Gillespie had 
arrived, and on the beach below he and Wilson 
were loading the pack-horse with the camp stuff. 

The two boxes in which the kitchen was packed 
went up first, one on each side of the pack-saddle, 
set astride the horse's back, and in shape some- 
thing like a saw-horse. The boxes were balanced, 
and made fast with ropes. The roll of blankets 
filled the space between them ; an ax was poked 
in, or a fishing-pole protruded from the heap; 
more blankets went up; then the tent was spread 
over all, and the load securely roped into place, — 
Mr. Gillespie and Wilson, one on either side, pull- 
ing against each other, and the patient old horse 
being squeezed between. 

Mr. Gillespie had brought the usual "ladies' 
animal " for Mrs. Gilmour to ride, which, in the 
West, always means an article of horseflesh which 
no man would care to bestride, but on which it 

will do to "pack" women and children about. 
Mr. Gillespie recommended it, as the horse his 
daughter rode to town. Miss Gillespie, it is prob- 
able, could ride with any man on the ranch. She 
had reasons, no doubt, of her own for liking to 
go to town on this particular animal, — for the 
convenience of his steady ways on a trail, perhaps ; 
or she may have ridden him as a child, and grown 
used to him, if not fond of his gait. But when the 
old horse and Mrs. Gilmour parted, it was without 
regret on either side. 

The chief event of the journey home was the 
fording of the river, once above Gillespie's and 
once below, thus avoiding the highest and hottest 
part of the trail, which they would pass at midday. 
Neither Jack nor his mother had ever forded a 
stream on horseback before. The sun was high, 
the breeze was strong, the river bright and noisy. 
Giddily rippling and sparkling, it rushed past the 
low willows along its shore. 

Mrs. O'Dowd was whacked into her place in the 
line, between Billy and the lady's animal, and kept 
her feet, if not her temper. And so, in due time, 
they arrived at the home ford and the ferry. 

Wilson and Mr. Gillespie took the animals 
across the ford, but the others were glad to ex- 
change the saddle for the boat. Polly, in a fresh, 
white frock, with her hair blown over her cheeks, 
was watching from the hilltop, and came flying 
down the trail to meet them. Every one said how 
Polly had grown, and how fair she looked — and 
the house, which they called a camp for its rude- 
ness, looked quite splendid with its lamps and 
books and curtains, to the sunburnt, dusty, real 
campers ; and, as Jack said, it did seem good to 
sit in a chair again. It was noticeable, however, 
that Jack sat lightly in chairs for several days 
after the ride home, but he had not flinched nor 
whined, and everybody acknowledged that he had 
won his single spur fairly well for an eight-year-old. 




By Allen G. Bigelow. 

ID you ever meet a robber, with a pistol and a knife, 

Whose prompt and cordial greeting was, "Your money or your 

Who, while you stood a-trembling, with your hands above your 

Took your gold, most grimly offering to repay you in cold lead ? 

Well, I once met a robber: I was going home to tea; 
The way was rather lonely, though not yet too dark to see 
That the sturdy rogue who stopped me there was very fully 

armed — 
But I 'm honest in maintaining that I did n't feel alarmed. 

He was panting hard from running, so I, being still undaunted, 
Very boldly faced the rascal and demanded what he wanted ; 
I was quite as big as he was, and I was not out of breath, 
So I did n't fear his shooting me, or stabbing me to death. 

i88 7 .] 



In answer to my question the highwayman raised an arm 
And pointed it straight at me — though I still felt no alarm ; 
He did not ask for money, but what he said was this : 
" You can not pass, Papa, unless you give your boy a kiss ! " 



(A Lullaby.) 

By Samuel Minturn Peck. 

Come, Mr. Dream-maker, sell me to-night 

The loveliest dream in your shop ; 
My dear little lassie is weary of light, 

Her lids are beginning to drop. 
She 's good when she 's gay, but she 's tired of play, 

And the tear-drops will naughtily creep ; 
So, Mr. Dream-maker, hasten, I pray, 

My little girl 's going to sleep. 





The flGUiPEA D 

> || 

Imagine a long, ir- 
regular street, sandy in 
, places, but generally hard, 
and white and shining with 
a layer of shells ; lined on 
one side with neat cottages, 
some one-storied and painted a 
quaint red with green shutters, 
others more pretentious, staring 
white and eye-searing with fresh paint. 
There are tiny gardens in front, neatly 
lined and bordered with curious shells; and one, 
facing the sea, has an arbor of a whale's backbone, 
over which the morning-glories twine and blossom. 
On the other side, seaward, are rows of quaint 
sheds and wharves, sail-lofts, and chandleries, an- 
chors of all sizes, and huge blocks, old booms, 
spars, and masts of obsolete styles, — and over all, 
that delightful, indescribable, mysterious, spicy 
odor of tar, rosin, and old rope, so dear to boyhood ! 
Let us go over to that shed halfway down the 
wharf, where the old '"pinkie" lies listed over to 
port, with her nose pointed toward the bright 
dancing waters of the channel through which she 
will never glide again. Fastened to the shed and 
projecting over the wharf is a cracked and weather- 
beaten figurehead of what must have been a pow- 
erful ship, a clipper of the olden time It is a sailor 
carven in wood, with wide-brimmed hat glazed and 
be-ribboned, shirt with flowing collar loosely tied, 
and trousers tight at the knee and very loose 
at the ankle. Its vacant, staring eyes seem fixed 
on some far-off shore, toward which its outstretched 
arm is ever reaching. Beneath, through the open 
door of the shed, we can see long lines of men 
sitting on low benches and sewing away on huge 
strips of new canvas ; singing in chorus, as they 
ply the short, thick sail-needle and waxed thread, 
some old-time ditty of the sea. Hark ! 

" ' Where are you going, my own pretty maid ? ' 
Hey-ho ! Blow a man down ! 
' I 'm going a-sailing, sir,' she said. 

Give a man time to blow a man down ! " 

Archie, my nephew, who is staying with me, — 
a splendid specimen of boy, just eleven years 
old, and my constant companion in 'longshore 
rambles, — gave a gasp of delight and longing 
at the sight of a fine model of a bark, about 

six feet long, complete even to her blocks and 
chains, which is mounted against the wall. From 
the ceiling hang coil upon coil of rope, oars, 
spars, and bundles of old sail. Near the door 
was sitting a heavily built, dark-faced man, with 
a grizzled beard that grows from under his chin, 
up the sides of his face, under his eyes, and 
even across his nose, from which a few short, 
thick hairs spring. His face was as immovable as 
the face of the wooden figurehead above him. He 
wears rings in his ears, and his shirt was open at the 

" I wonder ! " said Archie, pointing to the 
figurehead, "why they put that wooden sailor up 
there ! " 

" Mornin'," said the old man by the door, taking 
the burden of the explanation upon himself; " I 
heerd the little chap say, 'Why did they put that 
figgerhead up theer'; an' I cal'late then ye never 
telled him 'bout the James Starbuck. I was 
thinkin' on her this mornin', when I heerd it 
blowin'. There was a whale riz last night, over to 
Wood End, an' ther' 's a crew gone over to fasten 
on him up; but I cal'late this easter '11 blow 'im 
off. Whales 're gettin' sca'ce yer' now. Time was 
when ther' were large ones — hunderd bar'lers; 
but that day is gone, an' they don't ketch many 
now. But come over an' let 's sit on the pinkie, 
outen the wind, an' I '11 storify to the little feller 
'bout the figgerhead of the James Starbuck." 

Archie's eyes glistened at the prospect of a story 
from Captain Sam, of whom he had often heard 
me talk; and I, too, was glad of the opportunity 
of again hearing the story which is known all 
along the Cape from Provincetown to Sandwich. 
So we climbed over the blistered and worm-eaten 
side of the old pinkie Albatross of Provincetown, 
and settled ourselves under her high stern, out of 
the wind. The light clouds overhead threw long 
gray shadows over the water, which was of a tawny 
hue; flocks of gulls screamed shrilly over some 
choice morsel of fish, thrown from the mackerel 
fleet which lay off the bay. There had been a 
good catch the day before, and the crews were 
busy cleaning and salting the beautiful fish. There 
were some calkers at work upon a small whaling 
schooner, hauled up on the ways; but the town 
and wharves were almost deserted by all save the 

i88 7 .) 



ancient seamen, the sailmakers, and the ship- 

"When that theer figgerhead were sculpted," 
began Captain Sam, as soon as we were comfort- 
ably stowed, ''was a time when Americy was a 
great power on the ocean. When they wa' n't any 
steamboats an' iron tanks an' sich truck a-sailin' 
of the seas; an' when a' able-bodied seaman meant 
a' able-bodied seaman, an' not a passel o' lumpies 
wot don't know a stuns'l from a hole in the 

" Now, that yer' figgerhead has seen queer 
sights, an' I'll tell ye how it comes ter be up theer 
with the mornin'-glory a-twinin' on it 'round. 

" 'T were way back in 
eighteen hunderd an' 
nine, thet the James Star- 
buck, which were builded 
down to Bath, sailed on 
the return v'yage from 
Liverpool for Bostin, with 
a rich cargy of goods an' 
three hunderd men, wim- 
ming, an' childering. I 
heerd thet they hed a ter- 
rible v'yage, what with 
head-winds an' sickness 
aboard ; but 't wa' n't a 
passel o' nawthin' along o' 
when they sighted High- 
land Light, an'ther'come 
a 'shet in.'* They got 
turned about, I cal'late, 
— 't is n't telled fur sar- 
tin, — but shore enough, 
they was off the'r reck- 
enin'; an' 't wa' n't till 
night come on thet ther' 
come a blow-out, an' the 
sea riz with the wind, 
an' 'fore they diskivered 
where they were, they heerd the breakers. 

" They tried to keep off then, but 't wa' n't any 
use ! The big ship seemed ter want ter go ashore; 
an' ye knows thet when a ship takes it inter her 
head ter go ashore, ther' is n't any use a-kickin' 
ag'in it!" 

Captain Sam paused. A dreamy stillness rested 
over the town; the tack-a-tock of the calkers' 
hammers went steadily on ; the sharp rattle of a 
block sounded from a schooner which was hoist- 
ing her mainsail, and soon even this ceased; the 
schooner swung around to the wind, the sails 
filled, and shining in the morning sun, she sped 
away, rounded the point, up went her trysail, and 

" Well, sir, as I was sayin'," continued Captain 
Sam, " the sea lifted, an' the hatches were bat- 
tened down ; all hands hevin' no business bein' 
ordered below. The ship were a-rollin' heavily, 
an' some o' her cargy shifted ter loow'rd, an' in 
course, when this yer' happened, the Capting 
could n't make anythin' of her. She lay right 
over, an' the sea commenced fur ter break over 
her — an' then she struck ! An' a wail went up 
from the wimming ; an' the men bein' ' landies ' 
were wusser nor the wimming, an' they raised 
' Martial Ned.' 

" Well ! the folks that lived yer' on the neck 
were what 's called wreckers ; an' they heerd 


the guns from the ship, an' they thinked right 
away of what they was a-goin' to get, an' not of 
the unfort'nit bein's as were a-perishin' out theer 
in the bilin' sea. These wreckers were mostly 
Portuguese an' half-breed Injuns, which were hull 
savidges an' had n't any marcy in 'em ! These yer' 
savidge Hottingtots come a-runnin' like mad when 
they heerd the fust gun over by Wood End, — men, 
wimming, and childering. They see the lights 
from the ship go out, one by one ; they heerd 
the cries fur help, which they never meant to an- 
swer ; an' then they heerd the ship a-breakin' up 
above the noise o' the wind an' surf. The waves 
were that phosporous thet they could see each 
soon she was a mere white speck on the blue water other, a-standin' out black ag'in the white water, 
outside. a-waitin' fur the wreckage ter come ashore. An' 

' Fog. 




then ther' comes a raw green light, low down in 
the sky, nigh the wave-tops, an' the mornin' 
dawned ; and they see thet nawthin' was left but 
the starn of the old ship. 

" The men was soon busy openin' the chists and 
casks, an' some wimming gethered about a poor 
critter wot had come ashore with a leetle baby in 
'er arms. Some of the wimming was fur buryin' 
the poor souls ; but suddenly one woman riz up, 
an' says, says she, ' The baby 's alive ! ' With 
thet, the woman picks up the baby, rolls it in her 
shawl an' then walks away, unnoticed, from the 


crowd of swarthy men an' wimming working away 
with no thought but gain and plunder. 

" The carts go to an' from the village, loaded 
with great boxes an' bales, an' the sand is strewn 
with boards, pieces of mast, broken bottles, 

an' jugs of curious shape. There is quarrelin' 
among the men, an' the wimming jine with shrill 
screamin', an' over all is the dull gray sky, with 
little flicks of yaller light a-peepin' through, jist as 
it were this mornin' ; an' some of the savidge 
Hottingtots, a-looking back, see the figgerhead 
rise outen the boilin' sea with his finger a-p'intin' 
straight at 'em. an' then stick up theer, in the sand, 
fast as a mainmast in her step ! " 

Here ensued so protracted a silence, that I 
looked to see if the Captain had fallen asleep. 
But, no ; his eyes were wide open, and he was 
gazing intently at a fly 
that had settled on his 
knee. The Captain's 
huge hands began to 
move slowly toward the 
trespasser, when sudden- 
ly the fly, which had been 
calmly rubbing its legs, 
took wing, and the Cap- 
tain with a disappointed 
look in his eyes, said, 
" Missed, b' cracky ! " 

Archie wished to laugh, 
but in truth he was not a 
little in awe of the Cap- 
tain who could tell such 
wonderful tales. And 
Archie had just seen on 
the backs of those hands, 
gnarled and bent with 
years of handling rope 
and furling sail, a clip- 
per ship in full sail with 
the letters S. Q. in red 
and blue, and a goddess 
with a shield and crossed 
swords ! Under the cuffs, 
turned back as they were, 
could be seen the begin- 
ning of more wonderful 
tattooing. Perhaps, at 
some future time, the 
Captain might tell him 
how it was done. 

"Well," said the Cap- 
tain, "the woman that 
bringed the child from 
the dead mother's arms, 
seein' 't were a orpheling, 
an' she not havin' childer- 
ing of her own, cal'lated she'd keep it ; she bein' 
a' English woman which had married a Portugee. 
An' she brung it up, and it come to be a healthy 
boy with red cheeks, though 't were some sick for 
a spell ; an bymeby the boy come to be a man, an' 

i88 7 .] 




nat'rally tuck to the sea, hevin' come outen it, 
like " (here the Captain paused for a simile), " like 
a little Neptchun. An' he useter look over ter the 
Pint an' see the figgerhead a-settin' up a-p'intin' at 
the village. None of the savidges would n't tech 
it, 'cause they hed seen it risin' up thet theer night. 
The woman which he called his mawther, — not 
knowing no difference, ye see,— bein' a' English 
woman, an' not a Hottingtot like most on 'em, 
bringed him up in the way he should go," said 
the Captain, with a wave of his decorated hand. 
" One day come, when he bein' nigh onto fifteen 

year old, ther' was a ship, a-fittin' out fur a whalin' 
v'yage ; an' what sh'd the boy do but ship into 
her unbeknownst. An' when the mornin' come 
they was miles off 'n Highland Light, headed 
no'th. The Captain was mad fust off, but bein' 
ruther short-handed, he ruther rej'iced at havin' 
some one ter hit when he felt oncommon ugly, 
which was most ginerally. 

" Well ! he were gone a matter o' four year, an' 
the whaler hed hed good luck, an' the lad, he hed 
a nice little pile of dollars lyin' in the Capting's 
locker ag'in his name. So he makes all sail ter 




the leetle cabin among the sand-hills. The figger- 
head has sunk a leetle, and the hand pints dee- 
rectly ter the cabin. But the door is closed. His 
mawther, leastwise her he called mawther, — not 
knowin' any different, — was dead ; an' his father 
was shipped for Chiny on a long v'yage. So 
Sammy, that bein' how he was hailed, bein' nigh 
on heart-broken, ships from New Bedford for 
another v'yage, and 't was a matter o' ten year 
afore he ag'in makes Highland Light. 

" He finds the people changed on the Cape 
summat ; leastwise there is n't any more wreckin' ; 
an' the Injun savidges gettin' sca'ce, so he buys 
the leetle cabin and fixes her up. The old figger- 
head lays flat in the sand, nigh kivered on, an' 
Sammy takes a mule one day an' hauls it over ter 
the cabin. But bein' ruther solemncholy theer, 
all alone, he makes another v'yage ; an' bein' a' 
able-bodied seaman by this time, he gets good 
wages, an' follers the sea reg'lar fur a matter o' 
twenty year, seein' pretty much everythin'. 

" When one day he says to himself, ' Sammy,' 
says he, ' how 's the Cape ? ' — An' shore enough, 
next day he was on the way hum ! 

"The v'yage were bright an' 'The wind were 
fair', that were the words of the song, — but when 
we gets off George's Banks, it come on a blow 
o' wind, and ther' 's no clear sky fur four days. 
And then we kinder lose our way, bein' blew 
outen our reckenin', and the fust thing we knows, 

we were goin' head on shore. But the Capting of 
her were one of the old-time kind, an' he lets go 
everythin', and bymeby she come 'round as pretty as 
ye like, losin' only her jib, which was on her to 
keep her stiddy, which was blew outen her. The 
shore was lined with folks a-watchin' of us, but we 
bringed around all right an' made the harbor at 
eight bells. 

" I tell ye, we wa' n't long a-gettin' ashore, 
tho' 't was pooty rough ! We hed to go down to 
Bostin, to git paid off, and then Sammy thinked 
he 'd hed enough o' sailin', so he buyed a sail-loft 
yer' on this very wharf; an' he 's put somethin' by 
fur a rainy day, — leastwise, he married Huck 
Davis's daughter. 

" So I fixed up the figgerhead an' had him 
carted over yer' on the wharf an set up, an' the 
morning-glories ha' been a-twinin' on him now fur 
better 'n twenty year ! " 

" You fixed it up? Are you ? " said Archie, 

with eyes and mouth agape, forgetting his awe of 
Captain Sam. 

"Yes!" said the Captain, "I fixed him up, an' 
I 'm that same Sam — the baby that come ashore 
over ter Wood End ! An' I 'm powerful hungry, 
bein' it 's noon, an' if ye '11 bring the boy down 
hum, Mr. George, I '11 show him some o' the cu- 
rious things I c'lected in furrin parts, — leastwise 
some of the things thet come ashore with the figger- 
head of the James Starbuck." 

i88 7 .l 




By George J. Manson. 

A Journalist. 

The boy who would be a successful journalist 
must enter the profession with no vain ambition 
to hurry up and get his name in print, or to be 
called an "editor." He must make up his mind 
to work hard and conscientiously ; and, after a 
number of years, take the position in the pro- 
fession to which he seems to be adapted, resting 
content therewith. If he comes to his work with a 
collegiate education, it will be well ; but it is by 
no means necessary. 

Journalism, it must be borne in mind, is distinct 
from authorship, pure and simple. The journalist 
deals with the questions of the day ; his knowl- 
edge must be on the tip of his tongue, or rather, 
at the point of his pen, — ready for use at any 
moment. The author, on the other hand, can sit 
at home, write leisurely, revise frequently, and con- 
sult books of reference to verify his statements. 

Some college-bred reporters are occasionally 
both pained and surprised at their first newspaper 
experiences. Such a young man may look in the 
morning paper for his first report, on which, you 
may be sure, he has taken the greatest possible 
pains. He has given an elaborate description of the 
hall, the appearance of the audience, and of the 
lecturer he has been sent to report. 

Yet he can not find his account, although he is 
sure he wrote a column. 

" May be it 's crowded out," says a brother re- 
porter, and then adds, "Why, no; here it is ! It 
is cut down, and they 've put a new ' ' head " on it. " 

Yes ; there it is, away down in the corner of the 
third page, next to the market reports ! 

It makes a column — all but nine-tenths ! 

Our college-bred young friend may be very 
angry at such shabby treatment ; but, if he is a 
sensible fellow, he soon gets used to it. In fact, 
he is compelled to get used to it. 

The young reporter — and reporting is nearly 
always the first thing a journalist does — is sent 
out on "assignments," as they are technically 
called, of every possible description. Meetings, 
lectures, sermons, trials, weddings, funerals, crim- 
inal mysteries, political gatherings, investigations 
on all sorts of questions that agitate the public 
mind, — in short, everything of public interest 
comes within the province of his duty. No one 

Copyright by G. 

has a better chance to indulge in that most proper 
study of mankind, — man. 

Before the reporter, a humble drudge though he 
may be, pass in the course of a few years' service 
a long procession of all sorts and conditions of 
men. He becomes acquainted with goodly minis- 
ters and godless infidels; with keen men of the 
law and cunning criminals ; with honest virtue and 
smooth-faced hypocrisy. The rich, the poor, the 
ragged tramp, the gouty millionaire, the witty, the 
wise, the frivolous, the dull, the joyous, the sad, 
the humble, the proud, the saint, and the sinner, 
all come and go in quick review. 

The immortal Shakespeare could not have seen 
more of real life than does a reporter on a New 
York newspaper in the active pursuit of his profes- 
sion. Remember, I do not say that the reporter 
will even approach Shakespeare in his use of what 
he sees. That is an entirely different matter. 

But he will certainly have the opportunity of 
"seeing life," as the phrase goes; seeing it in its 
many phases ; seeing its joys, its sorrows, its hap- 
piness, and its misery. If he keeps his eyes open 
and not only sees much but sees deeply, he will find 
that what he has seen will be useful to him as an 
editor and a newspaper writer in after life. 

In the earliest stage of his career he must learn 
shorthand. And that reminds me of" David Cop- 
perfield,"and what he says about the difficulty of 
learning the art; and of how, in the little room in 
Buckingham street, he took down in shorthand 
the speeches of the great men as they were read 
from Enfield's Speaker by good-hearted Tommy 
Traddles ; of the precise but kindly old aunt, 
"looking very like an immovable Chancellor of 
the Exchequer," throwing in the usual interrup- 
tions of "No!" and "Oh!" and "Hear! Hear!" 
of poor old Mr. Dick succeeding often "lustily 
with the same cry"; and of young David following 
after the reader with all his might and main, — 
and the next day not being able to read a line of 
the notes he had taken the night before ! 

That description, pleasant and humorous as it 
is, has, I fear, deterred many a young man from 
studying shorthand. It must be remembered that 
the system Dickens learned was one of the old 
systems, that now we have a different system (pho- 
nography) which is much easier, — but still quite 
hard enough. This question of shorthand is a 

J. Manson, 1884. 

74 8 



very big question, and I have not here sufficient 
space to go into all the details of it.* 

The young reporter should learn shorthand, 
notwithstanding that some of his young news- 
paper friends may tell him that he can succeed 
without it ; and that, if he does learn it, he may 
have to work harder for the paper without receiv- 
ing much more pay. There is some truth in both 
these statements ; but there is no question that 
shorthand is an excellent crutch upon which to 
lean. In hard times, if a newspaper cuts down its 
force, the young man who knows shorthand will 
almost certainly be kept in preference to his asso- 
ciate who does not. And, in applying for a situa- 
tion on a city journal, the accomplishment is almost 
sure to be taken into account. 

Aside from these reasons, the convenience of 
knowing shorthand can hardly be overestimated. 
An author or journalist by its means multiplies 
his power many fold; he saves time and can jot 
down quickly ideas or suggestions that come to him. 

"What should a newspaper man know? "may 
be asked. 

Everything, — or, at least, something about 
everything. The ablest newspaper men we have 
had in our country have not been college gradu- 
ates ; and whether a young man is college-bred or 
not, the best part of his education must be gained 
in the actual service of his profession. He must 
always read a great deal, and he must not read to 
waste. He must have a good general knowledge 
of history, science, and art ; and with the social 
and political progress of his own country he must 
be thoroughly familiar. But in the early stages of 
his career he will find that what he needs most is 
quickness of apprehension, good judgment, and 
the power to state in writing, briefly and clearly, 
what the public wants to know on a given subject. 

The young man who is dull of comprehension, 
who is slow to "take in" a situation, will never 
make a good reporter. Neither will the other 
young man who is deficient in judgment, who 
does n't know what to take and what to leave ; who 
is verbose where he should be brief, and brief 
where he should be full and explicit in his state- 

In the newspaper office, after a great political 
meeting for instance, the young journalist will 
begin to learn the worth of various statesmen and 
orators in column space. Senator Brown may be 
a poor man, but the city editor will say, " Give 

Brown in full." On the other hand, Colonel Smythe, 
the millionaire, may have made a speech, of which, 
to save the newspaper men trouble, he has had 
copies made for the reporters. The city editor 
may say, " He is worth ten lines." The young 
reporter will discover that the newspaper estimate 
of our distinguished men is often widely different 
from the estimate they have of themselves, and 
does not always agree with that of the great public. 

In regard to the pay of newspaper men, it would 
be difficult, in fact impossible, to lay down any 
exact rule. Reporters on the city papers make all 
sorts of wages, — say from $5 to $60 a week. The 
amount earned depends entirely on the ability 
of the man, his industry, and his acquaintance 
with the various editors who purchase what he 
has to sell. For many newspaper men are not 
paid a salary, but at "space rates"; that is, so 
much a column. They work for several papers, 
writing one kind of article for one paper, another 
kind for another, and so manage to earn a good 

It is only experienced newspaper men, however, 
who can trust to this method. The novice will 
have to connect himself with some one journal, 
begin at small wages, learn all he can, make him- 
self as valuable as possible, and so, gradually work 
up in the business till he can be an independent 

I have two suggestions to make to the young 
reporter : the first is, that he should, while he is 
doing his ordinary work, make himself master of 
some specialty in journalism. Let him read, study, 
and keep thoroughly informed on art, on music, 
on the drama, or, most important of all, on the 
politics of his own and the principal countries of 
the world. Secondly, he should work with a definite 
end in view. 

As a rule, it will be advisable to look away from 
the great cities when his ambition determines him 
to become an" editor. " The position of managing- 
editor of a great city daily is daily becoming more 
difficult of attainment, because of the increasing 
number of journalists, and because the standard 
of journalism is slowly but surely being raised. 

Take a map and look at our great country ; think 
of the thriving cities, the enterprising towns, from 
one end of it to the other. Ponder for a moment 
on the intellectual progress of our people — what 
readers we are getting to be, what a vast number 
of journals are now published. Some of the best 

* There are many good books upon phonography published, but 
this is not the place to recommend any particular one. Of late years 
there have been published some small, cheap books, which present 
the principles in the briefest possible space. The difference between 
the various " systems " is of very little practical importance. But 
the text-book which presents the subject in the fewest possible words 
is, by all odds, to be preferred to the ponderous and more expensive 

works. If, however, a boy has commenced to study one of these 
books, let him keep on in the system he has selected, rather than 
begin the work all over again. If he has not commenced, let him 
have a talk on the subject with a good practical reporter, — one 
who makes, or has made, his living at shorthand reporting, and not a 
professional teacher of the art, who may not always be quite un- 
prejudiced in the advice he is willing to give. 

I88 7 .] 



papers in our country are published away from the 
great cities, and the standard of journalism is 
growing higher all the time. By the time the am- 
bitious reporter is able to be an editor, or to own a 
paper, in my opinion, he will find his best oppor- 
tunities in the "provinces." 

A lad should think long and well before he de- 
cides to enter journalism. At the very best, he will 
have to work hard ; at the worst, he may, as some 
do, drift into shiftless habits because the ambitions 
of his early youth have not been realized. Many 
men seem to think, when they become writers, that 
they can dispense with sound business judgment 
and common sense, and that the world will assess 

them and their work by a different standard from 
that used for other people. But the world will do 
no such thing. 

The journalist must bring to his calling, besides 
ability, the same good habits that insure success 
in any other vocation. 

Those readers who desire fuller information on 
this interesting subject I refer to two good books. 
The first is an American book, written by A. F. 
Hill, entitled " Secrets of the Sanctum : An Inside 
View of an Editor's Life." The second is, "Jour- 
nals and Journalism : with a Guide for Literary 
Beginners," — a book published in London about 
four years ago. 






By George I. Putnam. 


Chapter VII. 


THUS busily occupied from morning till night, 
Fred Arden found the days slipping rapidly away 
through the fall and winter, until spring came 
with its high anticipations of approaching fur- 
lough. The whole class shared in the pleasant 
prospect of again visiting home and putting off 
military forms for a season. Furlough surpassed 
in interest all other subjects, and was the unfailing 
theme of conversation whenever and wherever 
knots of yearlings assembled. Many plans were 
made for passing the summer in one another's 
society, most of which were destined never to be 
carried out. In April and May, on warm sunny 
Sunday afternoons the whole class would go down 
to Battery Knox ; and there, lying on the soft green 
turf of the parapet, they would talk of furlough, 
and dwell, for the hundredth time, on its coming 

It was difficult to turn from these delightful 
dreams to the contemplation of stern mathemat- 
ical facts ; but necessity compelled it. Study de- 
manded the closest attention from all, and all knew 
that remissness on their part would very likely be 
followed by failure at examination; and then the 
furlough granted them would be by the authority 
of the Academic Board, and permanent in its nature. 

The long-looked-for day came at last, and Fred 
and Craw donned their citizen's clothes again and 
walked down to the Mess Hall to breakfast, where 
they found that nearly the whole class had already 
discarded the gray uniform. 

A few of the class did not go with the rest, being 

kept back for a short time on account of the 
number of demerits recorded against them. But 
they waved a hearty farewell to their more for- 
tunate classmates, who gathered on the upper 
deck, as the boat steamed away from the wharf, 
and gave three cheers for the "stay-backs," three 
for the other classes, three for furlough, and three 
for everything that seemed to merit cheers, until 
hoarseness compelled them to stop. Then the idea 
of a parade occurred to them, and forming line, a 
mock ceremony was gone through, followed by a 
guard mounting, — all productive of much merri- 
ment in the class and among the other passengers 
on the boat. 

That was a jolly trip, and New York was reached 
all too soon ; then, with many wishes for "pleas- 
ant furlough," the class separated in every direc- 
tion for the summer. 

The end of August found Fred on his returning 
way, after a summer passed among his old friends 
in Maine. 

In New York he met nearly all the class, includ- 
ing Craw, who had arrived from his Mississippi 
home the same day ; and then followed an ani- 
mated interchange of experiences and descriptions 
of the summer's occurrences. 

The next day, the 28th, saw our friends again 
embarked on the steamer Mary Powell, and 
approaching West Point. The same party, that 
two months before had left so joyously, was now 
returning in a very depressed mood to two years 
more of work and study. 

Soon the old familiar landmarks began to ap- 
pear ; the buildings at the Point became visible as 

i88 7 .J 



the boat steamed around a bend, and some youth, 
a prey to melancholy, started the song: 

" ' Are we almost there, are we almost there ? ' 

Said the furloughman as he came back from home ; 
Are those the tents that I see up there, 
The Riding Hall and the Library dome?" 

and all joined in the lugubrious wail. 

Ascending the hill to the Library Building, prep- 
arations were rapidly made for the rush by which 
all returning furlough classes are welcomed. As 
the brow of the hill was reached, Fred saw the 
whole camp astir ; and soon the cadets, shouting 
expectantly, began to form a line extending from 
the foot battery nearly to the road. Hurry- 
ing to the open space in front of the Library, the 
returning furloughmen prepared for advance ; in a 
long line, and with a valise carried between each 
two men, they moved forward with answering 
shouts, to meet the awaiting classes. 

Both lines now advanced, at first slowly, then 
faster, until at last, running at racing speed, with 
a wild yell they dashed into each other, embracing 
rapturously. Hats were thrown into the air, noth- 
ing could be heard but shrieks and cheers, and for 
a time all was pandemonium. But presently the 
swaying, shouting mass of humanity began to dis- 
solve, and the furloughmen, escorted by their 
comrades, reached the camp and were received 
into the already crowded tents with unbounded 

The hop in the evening attracted some of the 
returned class ; but more preferred to remain in 
camp, where the yearlings entertained them with 
a display of the talent possessed by the plebe class. 
And that night as they dropped off to sleep on the 
hard floors instead of in their comfortable beds at 
home, their resting-places were softened by quilts 
and blankets generously loaned from the some- 
what scanty supplies of their sympathetic com- 
rades to whom furlough was either an anticipation 
or a memory. 

The next day, camp was vacated by the corps. 
All the morning, cadets were busy carrying their 
belongings to barracks on their sturdy shoulders, 
leaving in camp only their rifles and accouter- 
ments. At ten o'clock the drum-corps beat the 
"general" on the color-line, and all hastened to 
their tents to await the final signal of three taps 
on the bass drum. The tent-cords were rolled up, 
the tents steadied by the poles, and at the third 
tap, all the tents were lowered together as though 
by clockwork. 

Then the battalion formed in line, the band 
played, and they marched back to barracks for 
another ten months. 

Fred was now once more plunged deeply in his 
studies, and he and Craw, still rooming together, 

had many a difficult problem to solve in the 
courses of mechanics and chemistry which they 

When they came into barracks, Craw, who 
during the first two years had received a large 
number of demerits for inattention to regulations, 
determined to turn over a new leaf. "It does n't 
pay to be forever in confinement on extras," he said 
to Fred. His room-mate applauded his excellent 
resolution, and gave him all the aid in his power. 

Craw reached December without a demerit, 
and through the month preserved a clean record. 
But on New Year's Eve the thought of a game 
of cards occurred to him ; and rendered care- 
less by success, he proceeded to gratify his desire. 
Knowing where he would find kindred spirits, he 
made a call, after taps, on Delange, who lived on 
the fourth floor of the "Tower." Cards were im- 
mediately produced, and for a time the game of 
euchre went on very pleasantly. Suddenly, with- 
out a moment's warning, a single tap at the door 
announced the presence of the "tac." Both, in 
consternation, sprang to their feet. 

"All right, Mr. Delange?" 

"All right, sir." 

"Mr. Craw, have you authority for this visit?" 

"No, sir." 

"Go to your room immediately, sir!" 

Not a word was said about cards, and both boys 
entertained a faint hope that they had not been 
seen ; but the list next evening destroyed that 
hope, for they heard : 

" Craw : Visiting at inspection after taps. 

" Same : Playing cards at same. 

" Delange : Same at same." 

They were immediately placed in close arrest, 
which debarred them from leaving their rooms, 
except for duty ; and Craw, who was in the " Im- 
mortals " in philosophy, was much exercised in 
mind ; fearing that, in case he did poorly at the 
approaching examination, this act of his would 
count against him. But he passed without trou- 
ble, as did Delange also, and as soon as the exam- 
ination was over, they received the punishment 
due, — "To be confined in light prison for one 
month, and to walk tours of extra duty every Satur- 
day afternoon during that period." In addition, 
Craw's demerit list for the six months showed 
thirteen against him, instead of the blank for which 
he had hoped. 

But among the regulations of the Academy there 
is a paragraph which provides that when a cadet 
receives for any month a number of demerits less 
than eight, the difference between such number 
and eight shall be deducted from the number of 
demerits then recorded against him. This is called 
the " credit system," and it enabled Craw to work 





1 kMw^^K Ptli 



? : g&£Z*£> 


off the thirteen demerits, so that at the end of the 
academic year not one demerit remained on his 

It is often remarked by visitors at West Point 
that the cadets give no entertainments, such as are 
customary at other institutions. The fact is that 
they have no time for such affairs. The hops given 
during the summer and those of occasional occur- 
rence throughout the year represent almost their 
entire effort in the field of social entertainments. 
But once each year, on the hundredth day before 
June, the corps exerts itself to present an exhibi- 
tion of home talent. 

The entertainment is under the direction and 
control of the first class, but all classes contribute 
to the evening's pleasure, for to all it is an inter- 
esting occasion. The corps of cadets, with their 
friends and the inhabitants of the Point, assemble 
in the Cadet Mess Hall. At one end a stage is 
erected, and upon it the different "stars" scintillate 
and sparkle with wit and humor. The band plays, 
and the evening's entertainment is closed by 
reading the Howitzer, a paper published for the 
occasion and composed of contributions from the 

Considerable skill and talent is displayed in 
getting up these entertainments, and especially 
was this the case with the one exhibited on Hun- 

dredth Night in Fred's second-class year. Expecta- 
tion was heightened by the appearance of the 
programme, given below, which came out several 
days in advance : 


WATCHWORD : " One Hundred Days to-June." 

Headquarters, Council of War, 

West Point, N. Y., Feb. 23, 1884. 

General Orders 
No. 1. 

It is believed the enemy will be found en masse 
in the Cadet Mess Hall. The following detailed 
plan of attack will be observed : 

I. The U. S. M. A. Band will be posted in a 
commanding position on the left, and will open the 
action at 7.30 P. M. by a simultaneous fire from 
all the pieces. 

II. Marshal Hale will throw forward a line of 
skirmishers to ascertain the strength and disposition 
of the enemy's forces, but will, under no circum- 
stances, allow himself to be drawn into a prolonged 

III. Commodore Noble will send a gunboat, under 
command of Captain Russ, to proceed up the river 
(with guns firing and bands playing " The Tar's 

i88 7 .J 



Farewell") with a view to diverting the attention 
of the enemy's right. 

IV. When this is accomplished, General Simp- 
son will make a direct attack on the enemy's center, 
will push forward in spite of the storms of applause 
from the enemy's line, and will break through the 
center and attack the left in flank and rear. 

V. The Light Batteries under Colonels Thayer 
and Walton will keep up a lively fire along the 
whole line. 

VI. The Heavy Battery under Major Crittenden 
will pour in a hot fire of solid shot and shell on the 
redoubt on the enemy's left, and will not cease its 
fire until their batteries are completely silenced. 

VII. The reserve will now be brought up, and 
if necessary, all those in the hospital capable of 
bearing arms will take their places in the ranks. 

VIII. TheU. S. M. A. Band will now redouble its 
fire on the enemy's right, to prevent its effecting a 
juncture with the left, against which the main 
attack will be directed. 

IX. The howitzer, in charge of Gunner Gilette, 
will be unlimbered and prepared for action. The 
enemy's line of retreat having been cut off by San- 
ford's cavalry, accompanied by Clarke's engineer 
troops, who will destroy all bridges and other means 

X. The enemy being completely demoralized, 
Trumpeter Ramsey will sound the recall. 

XI. The troops will assemble as before the bat- 
tle, the lines will be carefully inspected by their 
respective commanders, and those who have not 
fired their pieces will be reported. To complete 
the victory and sweep the enemy from the field, 
the whole command will move forward, at double 
time, colors flying, bands playing, and troops 
shouting the watchword, — " One hundred days 
to June ! " 

By Order. 

Fall Out,— 
Rest ! 

The entertainment was very successful. Roars 
of applause greeted the different sallies, and the 
Howitzer proved exceptionally effective. All de- 
clared it the best Hundredth Night entertainment 
for years ; and in fact, the following year Fred had 
to admit that his class had been outdone by the 
one preceding. 

June was not very long in coming, and with it 
came the graduation of '83, promotion, new chev- 
rons, and removal to camp. When the new 
"makes" were read out, Fred found himself with 



of escape, the howitzer will open fire. Gunner 
Gilette is particularly cautioned not to be deceived 
by any apparent exhibition of weakness on the part 
of the enemy, but to continue the fire until the 
ammunition is exhausted. 

Vol. XIV.— 55. 

captain's chevrons and in command of "A" com- 
pany, which showed how well his bearing and con- 
duct throughout the preceding three years were 
recognized and appreciated by the authorities of 
the Academy. 




Fred found but little difference between this and 
his yearling camp, except in the matter of freedom. 
Absence from camp was more easily obtained now, 
and he was not slow to take advantage of it. Drills 
occupied much of the time, — too much, the class 
thought, — but in the intervals they found time to 
form many pleasant social ties, time to plan and 
carry out little excursions to points of interest in 
the neighborhood, time for many a pleasant walk, 
and many a climb to Fort Putnam, time for little 
suppers at the restaurant, and time to attend the 
hops and germans at the hotels, which constituted 
the chief pleasure of the summer. 

Return to barracks came all too soon, and Fred 
and Craw installed themselves in a tower room, 
and prepared to pass their last cadet year. Now 
the class began to notice and speak of the " last " 
occurrences, — the removal from camp to barracks 
was the "last" before graduation; the "last" 
transition from the white uniform to the gray took 
place; the "last" Thanksgiving, Christmas, and 
New Year's came and went ; and finally came the 
"last" muster and "last" Sunday morning in- 

During no year had the class found an easy 
course of study, and the first-class course was 
like the others in requiring the closest attention. 
The class drew strange-looking plans of fortifica- 
tions ; they built theoretical bridges, and practical 
ones also ; they slowly mastered the elements of 
the Spanish language, and daily shocked the pro- 
fessor by their un-Castilian accent ; they discov- 
ered the analogy between the " Laws of the Medes 
and Persians " and the regulations of the Military 
Academy ; and they skimmed over the history of 
the world from its settlement by Adam to the pres- 
ent time. They became adepts in the manufacture 
of shot and shell, and all weapons of attack and 
defense ; they became deeply versed in law, inter- 
national, constitutional, and military ; they rode, 
they marched, they studied, they drilled ; they 
built parapets and miniature forts, and then de- 
molished them ; they constructed pontoon bridges, 
spar bridges and rafts ; they would have explained 
to you the minutest details in the manufacture of 
gunpowder and dynamite, or told you just where 
the plans of battle of great military leaders were 
defective. In fact, they became walking encyclo- 
paedias of useful military knowledge. 

Then June came, and preparations for departure 
were seen on every hand. Nearly all the class 
had by this time received their citizen's clothes and 
lieutenant's uniforms, and many a private " pa- 
rade " did they have in their new suits. The Board 
of Visitors appointed by the President arrived early 
in the month and was received with all honors. 
The battalion was reviewed and inspected, and 

every day some new treat in the shape of an ex- 
hibition drill was offered the throngs who crowded 
the Point. Meanwhile the examinations of all 
classes, beginning with the first, were progressing, 
and all the members of Fred's class successfully 
passed them. 

There was a little surprise in store for Fred. 
As he finished his examination in the last subject, 
and was leaving the library, he was stopped at the 
door by one of the Board of Visitors, who expressed 
the pleasure it gave him to meet Fred again, and 

" I have been much pleased with your recita- 
tions, Mr. Arden, and am gratified to see one of 
Maine's sons do so well." 

Fred blushed and stammered a few words in 
reply. He valued the words of commendation the 
more highly on account of the source whence they 
came ; for it was the congressman who had given 
him his appointment who now congratulated him 
on his success. 

When the examinations all were finished, the 
graduates' ball was given, — and then came the 
last parade. Separation from companions of the 
past four years was very near now, and it was a 
sober face that Fred carried to that parade. As 
the companies marched out to the old familiar 
tune always played on this occasion, his mind 
was busy with the events of his cadet life, now 
so nearly terminated. And when the parade 
was dismissed, and the whole class, forming line, 
marched to the front, it seemed as though some 
chord had suddenly snapped in his breast, so deep 
were his feelings. 

The line moved forward, and halting in front 
of the commandant, who received the parade, 
removed their hats in salute. The commandant 
uncovered his head in acknowledgment, and said 
to the class, who had been under his charge for 
four long years : 

" Gentlemen, I wish you all honor and glory in 
your profession." 

The line broke and the last parade was over ! 
And yet, not quite finished ; for the graduates 
formed a second line, extending toward barracks, 
and as the companies after marching to the front, 
came past them, their hats were again removed. 
It was the farewell to the battalion ; and the com- 
panies came to a " carry arms" with a dull clang 
that seemed to point and emphasize the pang that 
was felt in every heart. 

The next morning was fixed for the graduating 
exercises ; and it dawned bright and sunny, so the 
ceremonies were held in the open air. The corps 
marched to the front of the library, preceded by 
the band playing "Army Blue" and " Benny 
Havens," and there, under spacious awnings, the 

i88 7 .: 



exercises took place. Prayer by the chaplain was 
succeeded by speeches by members of the Board 
of Visitors ; the band interspersed lively music ; 
and finally, the Secretary of War addressed a few 
words to the graduates and then presented each 
with his diploma. 

The last act of cadet life was now performed, 
and nothing remained for Fred and his classmates 
but to leave old West Point, now grown dear to 
them, — successful graduates. The goal they had so 

earnestly striven for was at last reached, and the class 
separated once more, never again to be re-united. 

Fred proceeded directly to his home, and there 
soon received his commission as second lieutenant 

in the Regiment of United States Cavalry. 

On the expiration of his graduation leave, he re- 
ported for his new duties at a military post in the 
far West. 

And there we must leave him. 

By Eudora S. Bumstead. 

The sun has gone from the shining skies ; 

Bye, baby, bye. 
The dandelions have closed their eyes ; 

Bye, baby, bye. 
And the stars are lighting their lamps to see 
If the babies and squirrels and birds, all three, 
Are sound asleep as they ought to be. 

Bye, baby, bye. 

The squirrel is dressed in a coat of gray; 

Bye, baby, bye. 
He wears it by night as well as by day ; 

Bye, baby, bye. 
The robin sleeps in his feathers and down, 
With the warm red breast and the wings of brown ; 
But the baby wears a little white gown. 

Bye, baby, bye. 

The squirrel's nest is a hole in the tree ; 

Bye, baby, bye. 
And there he sleeps as snug as can be ; 

Bye, baby, bye. 
The robin's nest is high overhead, 
Where the leafy boughs of the maple spread ; 
But the baby's nest is a little white bed. 

Bye, baby. bye. 




By Hjalmar Hjorth Boyesen. 

Chapter II. 

own in the valley 
the Easter bells 
were chiming ; the 
bell-strokes trem- 
bling through the 
clear and sun- 
steeped air. 

Yet there was 
commotion in the 
valley, in spite of 
the fact that it was 
Easter Sunday. 

Out in the mid- 
dle of the fiord 
lay a huge black 
steamship, which 
seemed to pant 
and shriek as if it 
were in distress, and sent volumes of gray smoke 
out of its chimneys. Around about, little black 
fragments of coal-dust were drizzling through 
the air and swimming on the water ; and the 
gulls which kept whirling about the smokestacks 
were quite shocked when they caught the reflec- 
tions of themselves in the tide. With wild screams 
they plunged into the fiord. They possibly mis- 
took themselves for crows. 

The pier, which broke the line of the beach at 
the point of the headland, was thronged with men, 
women, and children. The men were talking 
earnestly together ; most of the women were weep- 
ing, and the children were gazing impatiently 
toward the steamboat and tugging at their moth- 
ers' skirts. Some twenty or thirty boats, heavily 
laden with chests and boxes, lay at the end of the 
pier ; and one after another, as it was filled with 
people, put off and was rowed out to the steamer. 
Only the old folk remained behind ; with heavy 
hearts and tottering steps they walked up the 
sloping beach and stood at the roadside, straining 
their eyes to catch a last glimpse of the son or 
daughter whom they were never to see again. 
Some flung themselves down in the sand and 
sobbed aloud; others stooped over the weeping 
ones and tried to console them. 

At last there was but one little group left on 
the pier ; and that was composed of Fiddle-John 
and his three children. Jens Skoug, the emigra- 
tion agent, was standing in a boat, shouting to 

them to hurry, and the boys were scrambling down 
the slippery stairs leading to the water, while the 
father followed more deliberately, carrying the lit- 
tle girl in his arms. 

There was a Babel of voices on board ; and poor 
Fiddle -John and his sons, who had never heard 
such noise in their lives before, stood dazed and 
bewildered, and had scarcely presence of mind 
to get out of the way of the iron chains and pulleys 
which were hoisting on board horses, cattle, pigs, 
enormous boxes of merchandise, and a variety 
of other freight. It was not until they found 
themselves stowed away in a dark corner of the 
steerage, upon a couple of shelves, by courtesy 
styled berths, which had been assigned to them, that 
they were able to realize where they were ; and 
that they were about to leave the land of their 
fathers and plunge blindly into a wild and foreign 
world which they had scarcely in fancy explored. 

The first day on board passed without any inci- 
dent. The next day, they reached Hamburg, and 
were transferred to a much larger and more com- 
fortable steamer, named the Ruckert ; and be- 
fore evening the low land of North Germany 
traced itself only as a misty line on the distant 
horizon. Night and day followed in their monot- 
ony ; Russian Mennonites, Altenburger peasants, 
and all sorts of queer and outlandish-looking peo- 
ple passed in kaleidoscopic review before the eyes 
of the astonished Norsemen. It was the third day 
at sea, I think, when they had got somewhat ac- 
customed to their novel surroundings, that a little 
incident occurred which was fraught with serious 
consequences to Fiddle-John's family. 

The gong had just sounded for dinner, and the 
emigrants were hurrying downstairs with tin cups 
and bowls in their hands. The children were 
themselves hungry, and needed no persuasion to 
follow the general example. They unpacked their 
big tin cups, which looked like wash-basins, and 
took their seats at a very long table, while the 
stewards went around with buckets full of steam- 
ing soup, which with great iron dippers they 
poured into each emigrant's basin, as it was ex- 
tended to them. Many of the Russians were 
either so hungry or so ill-mannered that they 
could not wait until their turn came, but rushed 
forward, clamoring for soup in hoarse, guttural 
tones ; and one of the stewards, after having 
shouted to them in German to take their places 
at the tables, finally, by way of argument, gave 

lS8 7 .] 



one of them a blow on the head with his iron dip- boy, fourteen or fifteen years old, with yellow 

per. Then there arose a great commotion, and cheeks and large black eyes. He had a thin iron 

everybody supposed that the angry Mennonites chain about his wrist, and seemed every now and 

would have attacked the offending steward. But then to direct his attention to something under the 

instead of that, the crowd scattered and quietly table. Alf concluded that, in all probability, he 


took their places, as they had been commanded. 
They were an odd lot, those Mennonites, thought 
the Norse boys, who did not know that their 
religion forbade them ever to fight and compelled 
them to pocket injuries without resentment. 

Next to Alf, on the same bench, sat a swarthy 

had his bundle of clothes or his trunk hidden 
under his feet. But he was not long permitted to 
remain in this error. Just as the steward ap- 
proached them and extended the long-handled 
dipper, filled with soup, a fierce growl was heard 
under the bench, and a half-grown black-bear cub 




rushed out and made a plunge for his legs. The 
frightened steward gave a leap, which had the 
effect of upsetting the soup-pail over his assailant's 
head. A wild shout of pain followed, and every- 
body jumped on tables and benches to see the 
sport ; while the Savoyard boy who owned the bear 
darted forward, his eyes flashing with anger, and 
fired a volley of unintelligible exclamations at 
the knight of the soup-pail. There was a sud- 
den change of tone, as he stooped down over his 
scalded and dripping pet, and, showering endear- 
ing names upon it, hugged it to his bosom. 

The emigrants jeered and shouted, the steward 
scolded, and the purser, who had been summoned 
to restore order, elbowed his way ruthlessly 
through the crowd until he reached the author of 
the tumult. 

" How do you dare, you insolent beggar, to bring 
a bear into the steerage ? " he cried, seizing the 
boy by the collar and shaking him. " Who per- 
mitted you to bring such a dangerous beast on 
board this — " 

His harangue was here suddenly interrupted by 
the bear, which calmly rose on its hind legs and, 
showing its teeth in an unpleasant manner, pre- 
pared to resent such disrespectful language. The 
purser took to his heels, while the steerage rang 
with jeers and laughter, and the Savoyard could 
hardly prevent his companion from pursuing the 

The Norse boys, whose sympathy was entirely 
with the bear and his master, quite forgot their 
hunger in their excitement over the stirring inci- 
dent; and when the Savoyard, feeling that the 
steerage was scarcely a safe place for him after 
what had occurred, mounted the stairs, dragging 
his bear after him, they could not resist the temp- 
tation to follow him, at a respectful distance. But 
when they saw him crouching down behind the 
big smokestack and gazing timidly about him, while 
he wiped the bear's head and face with his sleeve, 
they could not conquer the impulse to make the 
acquaintance of so distinguished and interesting 
a personage. They accordingly sidled up slowly, 
holding their sister between them, and were soon 
face to face with the Savoyard. 

"What is your name? " asked Truls with a bold- 
ness which raised him immensely in his brother's 

The Savoyard shook his head. 

"What do people call you when they speak to 
you ? " Truls repeated, raising his voice and draw- 
ing a step nearer. 

"Nan capisco. Jc ne sais pas," answered the 
boy in Italian and French, giving them the choice 
of the only two languages he knew. 

" Capisco," Truls went on confidently in his 

Norse dialect ; " that is a very funny name. lam 
afraid you don't understand me. It was n't the 
bear's name I asked for; it was your own." 

The Savoyard shrugged his shoulders express- 
ively, then poured out a torrent of speech which 
bewildered his Norse friends exceedingly. If the 
bear had opened his mouth and addressed them in 
his own language, they would have understood 
him quite as well as they did his master. 

"You are a very funny chap," Truls remarked 
with a discouraged air. " Why don't you talk like 
a Christian ? " 

He was determined to make no more advances 
to so irrational a creature, and was about to lead 
the way back to the dinner table, when the arrival 
of the purser and the third officer of the ship 
again arrested his attention. The purser had evi- 
dently been hunting for the Savoyard; for, as he 
caught sight of him, he made an exclamation in 
German and called out to the third officer : 

"There is the vagabond! Make him under- 
stand, please, that his bear must be shot and that 
he must get out of the way. He has taken out no 
ticket for his beast, and we don't carry that kind 
of freight gratis ! " 

The third officer, who spoke French fluently, 
explained the purport of the puiser's remarks to 
the Savoyard, but in a gentle and kindly manner 
which almost deprived them of their cruel mean- 
ing. The boy, however, did not stir, but remained 
calmly sitting, with his arm thrown over the bear's 
neck and one hand playing with its paws. 

The officer, seeing that his words had no effect, 
repeated his remark with greater emphasis. A 
startled look in the boy's eyes gave evidence that 
he was beginning to comprehend. But yet he 
remained immovable. 

" Get out of the way, I tell you ! " cried the pur- 
ser, drawing a revolver and pointing it at the bear's 
head. "I have orders to kill this beast, and I 
mean to do it now. Quick, now, I don't want to 
hurt you ! " 

The boy gazed for a moment with a fascinated 
stare at the muzzle of the terrible weapon, then 
sprang up and flung himself over the bear, covering 
it with his own body. The animal, not under- 
standing what all this ado was about, took it to 
mean a romp, and began to lick its master's face 
and to claw him with its limp paws. 

A large crowd had now gathered about them, 
and a loud grumble of displeasure made itself 
heard around about. The purser began to perceive 
that the sentiment was against him, and that it 
would scarcely be safe for him to execute his threat. 
Yet he found it inconsistent with his dignity to 
retire from the contest, and he was just pausing 
to deliberate, when all of a sudden, a small fist 

i88 7 .] 



struck his wrist, and the pistol flew out of his hand 
and dropped over the gunwale into the sea. A loud 
cheer broke from the crowd. The purser stood 
utterly discomfited, scarcely knowing whether he 
should be angry with his small assailant or laugh 
at him. He would, perhaps, have done the latter 
if the cheering of the people and their hostile 
attitude toward him had not roused his temper. 

"Bravo, Tom Thumb!" they cried. "At him 
again ! Don't be afraid because he has brass 
buttons on his coat." 

" Good for you, Ashiepattlc ! " the Norwegians 
shouted; "go it again! We'll stand by you." 

It was Truls, Fiddle-John's son, who had thus 
suddenly become the hero of the hour; he had 
acted in the hot indignation of the moment and 
was now abashed and bewildered at the sensation 
he was making. He looked anxiously about for 
his brother and sister, and as soon as he caught 
sight of them, was about to make his escape when 
the purser seized him by the collar and bade him 

" You are a fine boy, to be attacking your bet- 
ters, who have never given you any provocation," 
he said in German, which Truls, fortunately, did 

not understand. " I am going to take you to the 
captain, and he will have you punished." 

He made a motion to drag the struggling boy 
away, but the crowd closed about him on all sides, 
and pressed in upon him with angry shouts and 
gestures. The third officer, who had so far taken 
no part in the proceedings, now stepped up to the 
purser and begged him to release the boy. 

" Of course," he said, " you are in the right ; 
but if I were you, I would waive my right this 
time. It 's hardly worth while making a row 
about so small a matter; and it is always bad pol- 
icy to go to the captain with squabbles and griev- 
ances, especially when they might so easily have 
been avoided. I assure you, you will only injure 
yourself by doing it." 

They talked for a minute together, while the 
ever-increasing throng surged hither and thither 
about them. Whether purposely or not, the irate 
purser, in the zeal of his argument, released his 
hold on Truls's collar, and the liberated boy dodged 
away as quickly as possible, and was soon lost in 
the crowd. The Savoyard and his bear had long 
before seized the opportunity to withdraw from the 
public gaze. 

(To be continued.) 





By Charles Frederick Holder. 

Many readers of St. NICHOLAS have probably 
often wondered why the myriad forms of animals 
that peopled the earth in the olden times have 
passed away, and how such changes have come 

We know from the evidence of fossils that the 
kinds of animals that have become extinct, or 
ceased to exist, far exceed in number those now 
living. In some localities, as, for example, Cats- 
kill Creek, the rocks three miles from the mouth, 
which form a part of one of the great supporting 
ridges of the earth's crust in New York State, are 
made up largely of extinct forms of shells, now 
turned to hard, solid stone. In the curious pot- 
holes near Cohoes, New York, have been found 
the remains of a great elephant; and in the 
locality called Big Bone Lick, Kentucky, the 
bones of these and other monsters are found piled 
together in large numbers. 

What is their story? The rocks can not speak; 
yet, if we examine them carefully, they tell a won- 
derful history in a mute language of their own. 

In the Catskill Creek it is evident that by a 
gradual uprising of the earth's crust all the forms 
of submarine life there have been lifted high and 
dry out of water; and so, deprived of their natural 
element, the entire population of this ancient body 
of water has perished. But there may have been 
another cause. In the Catskills and Helderbergs 
we find corals and sponges; and in the latter 
mountains we can trace a perfect coral reef upon 
the tops of the peaks in one of the coldest parts of 
the State. Corals and sponges are animals that 
require warm waters for their birth and growth ; 
and this fact and other indications go to show that 
at one time the climate of New York State and the 
surrounding country was much milder than at 
present, and that a gradual change to a colder 
temperature had perhaps destroyed these early 
forms of life before they were deprived of their 
natural element. 

The change that resulted in the glacial time, 
when this section of country was covered with ice, 
undoubtedly caused the extermination of many 
forms of animal life. It may have been long ages 
in coming about, but the results are none the less 
certain, and to it is undoubtedly due to a great 
extent the destruction of the great mammoth and 
many other forms in the north. 

When man appeared upon the scene, he at once 
began to destroy animals, and from that time to 

the present, various creatures have disappeared, 
and others are gradually passing away before our 
eyes — the direct result of man's attack upon them. 

One hundred years ago, the voyagers to the 
Arctic seas were familiar with a large and power- 
ful animal resembling our manatee; in fact, it was 
a northern representative of this animal, called the 

In general appearance the Arctic sea-cow was a 
stupendous creature, as it attained, when full-grown, 
a length of from twenty to twenty-eight and, in some 
instances, thirty-five feet and a weight of several 
tons. The general color was dark brown ; and the 
skin was thick and leathery and covered with a 
dense bristling hair that matted together, forming 
a protection from the ice and cold, and was com- 
parable in appearance with the bark of a tree. 

The head of the sea-cow was small in proportion 
to its size, and, instead of possessing teeth, was 
provided with two curious masticating plates. The 
tail somewhat resembled that of a whale, having 
two lobes; and the fore fins, or paddles, were blunt 
and without nails, having, instead, a thick growth 
of stiff rough hairs. 

When first discovered, the sea-cows were pastur- 
ing in large herds among the seaweed of the shore 
of Behring Island. They showed no fear of man, 
even allowing themselves to be touched ; but when 
one was injured, they are said to have displayed 
much bravery in its defense. 

This was the state of affairs in the year 1742, 
when some of our great-great-grandfathers were 
alive. At that time a vessel was wrecked in the 
Arctic Ocean. The crew made their way to 
Behring Island, where for some time they sub- 
sisted upon fish and birds, until finally this game 
became scarce; and on the first of June, in the 
year mentioned, they commenced warfare against 
the sea-cow, which has since been named after 
Steller, one of the wrecked party. The sea-cows 
were killed with harpoons ; and the animals were 
so large and powerful that forty men could scarcely 
drag a wounded one through the water. 

The sail